Better The Devil
by irismay42
Summary: When 13 year old Dean and 9 year old Sam share the same dream where each sees their father killing the other, the boys are forced to take drastic measures when John returns from a hunt not quite "himself"...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story was written in January 2007 for the Agents With Style zine A' Hunting We Will go, which was published in May 2007. After duly waiting the requisite year, here it is in internet format! I was almost Kripke'd by A Very Supernatural Christmas, but as Sam is nine and Dean thirteen in this story, I think I just about dodged the bullet and this story does presume Sam knows what John does 'for a living'!

**RATING: **PG-13. However, please bear in mind that not everything is as it seems in this story, and that it does include minor instances of violence or threats of violence towards children. Contains no graphic violence, sex or language.

**DISCLAIMER:** You might _think_ I don't own the boys, but I've got a Contract with Dean's name on it...

**BETTER THE DEVIL**

**CHAPTER ONE**

The instant Dean Winchester opened his eyes, he sensed it.

Something in the room that shouldn't be there.

The darkness was heavy and cloying, and he had to blink several times before he could focus on the sliver of sodium streetlight spearing through the gap between the curtains and creeping across the foot of his bed.

His first instinct was to grab the knife he kept hidden beneath his pillow; but his arms felt like lead weights pinned to his sides, and it was all he could do to turn his head toward his little brother's bed.

Straining into the darkness as he struggled to take his next breath, the light beyond the window was just enough to illuminate Sammy's outline, the little boy's chest moving up and down as the nine-year-old took slow, even breaths.

But even as Dean watched his brother sleeping, a silhouette even darker than the darkness filling the room passed in front of his eyes, a jet black shadow between the two beds, blocking all but Sam's face from Dean's line of sight.

His next instinct was to cry out, scream for Dad, scream for help. But there was no one here to cry out to; no one here to help. Dad had been gone three days and he'd be gone three more and no one else was going to come running, no matter how hard or how loud Dean screamed.

As far as adult protection went, right now Dean was pretty much it.

"Sam! Sammy!" His voice died on his lips, vocal cords constricting as he tried to alert his little brother to the danger, all attempts at moving as weak and as useless as his voice.

Whatever it was, it was man-shaped, Dean could at least see that, a large hand reaching to push the thick dark hair away from Sam's forehead while the other gently pulled the pillow from beneath the boy's head.

Dean's eyes widened in terror, voice screaming silently in his head, "Sammy! Sammy!" as the intruder slowly lowered the pillow over Sam's face.

Gritting his teeth, Dean concentrated so hard on moving it physically hurt, but nothing seemed enough to raise him from the bed, to give him the power to even lift his head from the mattress; it was almost as if something was sitting on his chest, pinning the teenager beneath its weight so that he could barely even breathe.

Gasping for air, he saw his baby brother's body begin to buck as the pillow was clamped harder over his pale face, hands scrabbling upwards in an ineffectual effort to push his attacker away.

In his head, Dean's screams intensified, but were soon drowned out by those of his brother.

"Dean! Dean! Help me!"

But he couldn't.

He couldn't do anything.

All he could do was watch as his brother's form continued to jerk and spasm, each movement more violent and desperate than the one before.

Until finally, he stopped.

Sam just stopped moving altogether, his screams dying in Dean's head.

And all Dean could hear over the rasping of his own ragged breathing was a low, guttural laugh.

The dark silhouette removed the pillow from the younger boy's face then, revealing Sam's dark eyes, wide open and staring sightlessly at his big brother.

The big brother who was supposed to protect him.

"Sam?"

Dean heard his own voice, hollow in his ears, distant and faraway and almost indistinguishable from the harsh, pitiless laughter.

The figure began to turn then, pillow still clutched in his hand, as a startlingly familiar yet altogether alien voice muttered, "Don't worry, son. Your turn next."

Dean felt it lean down toward him. Felt its breath on his cheek. Felt rough, cold fingers brush against his lips as the words, "Ssh, it's alright. It won't hurt. It'll be just like falling asleep," were breathed into his ear.

And as the pillow moved relentlessly toward his face, he caught a glint of something shiny on the intruder's left hand.

A ring.

A wedding ring.

"Ssh, little one. Just close your eyes. This won't hurt. Not like it hurt your mom."

"No…"

"Just close your eyes."

The last thing Dean saw were his father's eyes gazing down at him.

"Just close your eyes, Dean."

* * *

Dean's eyes snapped open, hand flailing for the knife hidden beneath his pillow as he adjusted to the sudden light in the room and the big, frightened eyes mere inches from his own.

"Dean, I had a nightmare!"

Sam was tugging at Dean's t-shirt, fingers gripping the threadbare cotton so tightly Dean was almost dragged right off the bed.

Breathing hard, Dean tried to remember where he was, what was happening.

Darkness.

Pillow.

Sam.

_Dad._

"Dad?" The word came out like a knife jerked from a fresh wound, and Dean sat up fast, blinking as he focused on the room around him.

Sam had turned on the nightlight, bedclothes in a twisted heap on the floor between the two beds, pale face covered in a thin sheen of panicked sweat.

The younger boy's eyes were bigger than they had any right to be, the sheer terror there reflecting Dean's own sense of disorientation, near panic and – and something else. A pain he recognized so keenly that it was all he could do to choke back the tears threatening to overcome him.

Grief.

He'd seen Sammy, _his _Sammy, lying there, eyes hollow and empty and _lifeless_: staring at him. Just staring at him. _Why didn't you protect me, Dean?_

And he'd seen Dad…

"Dean?"

There were tears running unchecked down Sam's waxy cheeks, a rare occurrence these days, and his bottom lip was trembling as the fingers gripping his big brother's t-shirt became a convulsive fist pulling the older boy closer.

"Dean – it was – I saw – you were…" The rest of Sam's words were choked off in a sudden hacking sob, and Dean instantly forgot his own terror, scooching over in his bed and pulling his kid brother in next to him like he used to when he was little, not sure if he was offering comfort _to_ Sam or craving comfort _from _him. Perhaps a little bit of both.

Sam's sobs seemed to relent somewhat as the younger boy buried his face against Dean's shoulder, Dean stoking his hair gently as he tried to ignore how badly his hand was shaking.

"When's Dad coming home?" Sam's voice was distorted by the fabric of Dean's t-shirt, thick and distant and almost overcome with fear.

"Soon," Dean murmured, heart beating a little faster as he answered, fingers still entwined in his kid brother's dark locks.

"Dean?" Sam whispered hesitantly, raising his head slightly so that he could stare at his brother with red-rimmed eyes.

Dean met his gaze uncertainly, almost afraid of what Sam was going to say next.

"I – in my dream…" Sam bit his lip, his grip on Dean's t-shirt tightening again.

Dean continued to hold his little brother's gaze evenly, even though he wanted nothing more than to look away. "What did you see?" His voice was as thick as Sam's, almost too deep to be his.

Sam blinked. "Dad hurt you."

Dean swallowed. "How?"

Sam's head was still raised. Looking at him. "He put a pillow over your face and you couldn't breathe and…and…"

Dean nodded.

Took a breath.

Pulled Sam closer.

"I –" Dean hesitated, uncertain whether he should tell Sam the truth. "I had the same dream," he managed eventually, Sam's eyes widening in shock. "Only…only in my dream, Dad hurt _you_." He felt Sam's body tense against him.

"He said I was next –"

"Just close your eyes –"

"This won't hurt –"

"Not like –" Dean stopped.

Sam was still looking at him. "Like Mom."

Dean took another breath.

"Dean? Dean, did it – did Mom – did she –" Sam blinked. "Did she _hurt_?"

Dean swallowed again.

Wrapped his arm tighter around Sam's shoulder.

Pulled him real close.

"I don't know, Sammy."

"But Dad. He wouldn't… He'd never…"

"Just close your eyes, Sammy."

"I don't want to."

"It's alright. I won't let anything hurt you. Not ever."

Sam raised himself up on one elbow, big eyes staring right into Dean's. "But what if it hurts you _first_?" His fingers tugged convulsively at Dean's shirt. "Like it did in my dream?"

Dean sighed, stroking Sam's hair some more. "Dad'll be home soon."

Sam nodded. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, foot kicking nervously at the table leg as his older brother tried not to burn the eggs again.

"I don't wanna go to school today," the younger boy said quietly, resting his chin in the palm of his hand while the other traced abstract patterns on the ugly Formica tabletop.

Dean was rattled. It didn't take a genius to see that. He hardly ever burnt stuff, and so far four pieces of toast had already been consigned to the trash, not to mention his first attempt at scrambled eggs.

"We have to go to school," Dean muttered absently, frowning as the toaster popped just as the eggs were ready. "Or Dad'll get in trouble."

"When's he coming home?"

Dean cursed, sucking at his burnt fingers as he tossed the toast onto a plate before snatching up a knife and smearing a thin layer of margarine across the bread. "Soon," he replied, scraping half the eggs onto the plate before setting it in front of Sam. "Here."

Sam just stared at the eggs as Dean re-filled the toaster. "Dean –"

"It was just a dream, Sam." Dean didn't even turn around, concentrating a little too hard on fixing his own breakfast.

"A dream we _both_ had, Dean!" Sam returned, willing his brother to turn and face him. "You think that's _normal_?"

Dean sighed. "Nothin' 'normal' about us, Sam. Never gonna be." He shoved the frying pan into the sink with a metallic clatter, snatching his toast from the toaster and wondering how thin he'd have to spread the last sliver of margarine in order to vaguely cover both slices.

"Dean?"

"Sam?"

Dean sat heavily in the seat across from his brother, gazing at his breakfast with the same lack of enthusiasm as Sam.

His kid brother was staring at him in that annoying way he had, brows raised as he went in for the kill. "Dean, do we _have_ to go to school…?"

Goddamn it, no _way_ Dean was falling for the doe eyes today. "Since when did _you_ not want to go to school?" he demanded instead, shoving his hands across the table, knocking into his brother's in an attempt at a little forced levity. "Huh, Mr. Bookworm?"

Sam's brow crinkled. "Since we both dreamt our dad killed us," he answered, grabbing Dean's wrist and holding on. "Dean? Something's wrong. Maybe Dad's hurt. Maybe –"

­­"Sammy." Dean looked over at his brother sternly, and the younger boy released his death grip, leaning back on the uncomfortable metal chair and folding his arms across his chest glumly.

Sam knew Dean hated it when he said stuff like that. _What if, what if, what if…_ There had already been a couple of occasions when Dad had been late back from a hunt; or just not come back at all, causing Dean a terrified phone call to Pastor Jim. Those times, while Sam worried and pestered and talked non-stop just to drown out the thoughts swimming around like sharks in his head, Dean, conversely, would grow unnaturally quiet, sullen and withdrawn, constantly looking out the window when he thought Sam wasn't watching, face set into a perpetual mask of emotionless determination, building a wall around himself so that Sammy wouldn't see how scared he was.

Of course, Sam knew exactly how scared Dean was. Well, maybe not _exactly_. After all, Sam had an advantage Dean didn't: Sam had Dean.

But with each successive _what if, maybe, what if,_ Dean became a little more expert at building those walls. And Sam became a little more scared that one of these days they'd get so high he wouldn't be able to scale them any more.

"It's not polite to stare, Sammy."

Sam blinked. "I wasn't staring."

Dean bit his lip, glancing at the clock on the busted up microwave. "We're gonna be late."

"Dean –"

Dean stood then, all purposeful and decisive.

And Sam knew right then it was all a front. A front Dean put on especially for his kid brother's benefit.

"C'mon, runt. We gotta go."

"But Dean –"

"You know Whiney Sammy doesn't impress me any more than Puppy Dog Eyes Sammy, right?"

"I'm _serious_, Dean!"

Sam stood then too, pulling himself up to his full height, which, though admittedly still a couple of inches shorter than his older brother, didn't seem to undermine that way Sam had about him, that way of making his presence felt, that _confidence_, that sometimes Dean just didn't have. Or maybe didn't want. Sometimes Sam could command the attention of an entire room just by getting to his feet like this, while Dean sat in the corner, quietly overlooked, quietly watching everything.

Dean sighed heavily. "You're _always_ serious, Sammy."

Sam ignored the jibe. "What if Dad's in trouble?"

There was that "what if" again.

"Why would you even think that?" Dean frowned at his brother, clearing the barely-touched breakfast plates from the table, before picking up the younger boy's backpack and checking he had everything he needed for the day.

"The dream, Dean."

"Dad would never hurt us." Dean didn't even look up, mouth set into a thin white line as he mechanically shoved a brown paper bag of sandwiches into the top of Sam's schoolbag.

Sam took a step toward him, reached out a hand to still the older boy's jerky movements as he began stuffing books into his own backpack. "Dean."

Dean stopped, eyes flicking upwards to meet Sam's, freckles standing out harshly on his pale skin.

Sam took a breath. "What if – what if it's a warning?" he asked. "The dream. What if someone's trying to warn us –?"

"About what, Sammy?" Dean's voice was harsh, like rough sandpaper, but Sam kept his hand fixed firmly on his brother's arm.

He gulped, afraid how Dean would react to what he was about to suggest next. "About Dad," he managed quietly, eyes determinedly fixed on his brother's.

Dean's jaw tensed visibly, fingers gripping the math book still clutched in his hand a little too tightly. He continued to hold Sam's gaze for a long moment, before finally looking away. "Why would anyone need to warn us about Dad?" he asked at length, not angry like Sam expected. Scared.

Sam inclined his head, fingers still closed around Dean's arm, his older brother for once not pushing him away.

Rattled.

"Maybe," Sam said quietly. "Maybe something… Maybe something _got_ to him. Did something to him."

Dean looked up then. "Like – like possession?" he hazarded, unsure, brows drawn together, Sam's first clue that maybe Dean _had_ been thinking the same as he had.

Sam shrugged, not entirely sure himself what he was suggesting.

Dean seemed to think about that for a second, before finally shrugging Sam off and continuing to pack his schoolbag. "Dreams don't work like that, Sammy," he said at length, voice low, measured. "They don't mean anything. They can't tell the future –"

"But we had the _same dream_, Dean!" Sam's voice was only slightly less measured. He knew better than to suggest Dad was anything short of Superman when Dean was around, but he also knew that something wasn't right. And he knew Dean knew it too. "It's got to mean something."

Dean looked up at him. Then he shrugged, almost as if he didn't want to think about it anymore. "Right now," he said, handing Sam his backpack before hefting his own up onto his shoulder. "It means we're late for school. Come on."

* * *

Sam watched the second hand on the big clock at the front of the classroom slowly ticking down the seconds until three o'clock.

Generally, Sam, unlike Dean, was a big fan of school and reveled in those few short hours of normality he was allotted each day.

But today?

Well, today had been different.

He'd been and found Dean at lunchtime, like he often did when they were relatively new to a school. Some kid in the grade above him had already taken an instant and irrational dislike to Sam and his hand-me-down clothes, so he was finding it harder to make friends here than he usually did, and he guessed in situations like this, no matter how grown-up and independent he liked to consider himself, he always tended to retreat toward the comfort blanket that was his older brother.

No way Jeff Simmons would pick a fight with Sam when Dean was around.

Dean had been sitting on his own as usual, scruffily-sneakered foot banging against the low wall surrounding the parking lot, looking down at his hastily-packaged peanut butter sandwiches with all the enthusiasm of a cowboy in a salad bar.

Sam plopped himself down next to his older brother without a word, Dean not even looking up.

"Hey," Sam said, pulling out his own lunch with a little sigh.

"Hey," Dean returned, still not looking up.

Sam unwrapped his sandwiches, taking a hesitant bite before producing a can of Pepsi. "Wanna share?" he asked, holding out the fizzy beverage.

Dean glanced up at the proffered drink before shaking his head and wordlessly returning to glowering at his lunch.

Sam ate in silence, stealing sidelong glances at his brother every now and then, just to check whether the older boy was eating.

Dean wasn't eating.

Sam sighed, sipping at the cola and wondering what to say. He wanted to make Dean feel better, but he wasn't sure how. "I'm sure Dad's okay," he managed at length. Weak, he knew, but he wasn't used to doing the comforting: that was Dean's job. Always had been, always would be, no matter how grown-up Sam thought he was. Hadn't last night proved that? One little night terror, and confident, independent Sam Winchester had been reduced to Dean's little brother Sammy in a matter of seconds.

Dean's eyes flickered upwards, the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips.

Sometimes Sam wished he was psychic, just so that he could understand what was going on in his big brother's head. "What's so funny?" he asked.

Dean met his gaze thoughtfully. "You're stealing my lines, Sammy," he replied.

Sam matched Dean's smile hesitantly. "Well one of us has to be the grown-up, right?"

Dean looked away again. "Yeah," he agreed slowly. "I guess one of us does."

It was that sad look, that old-before-his-time look about Dean that made Sam ache inside. And it was that look that sometimes made Sam hate John Winchester, hate him for what he'd done to them; for what he'd done to Dean. Without even realizing he'd done it.

And that was why today Sam was watching the clock, anxiously determined to be the first out of the classroom, not the one who hung around behind the rest of the class to ask the teacher a hundred inquisitive questions, like he usually did. He'd be ready, he'd be waiting for Dean, and he'd go straight home and not beg to visit the library on the way and he'd be _good_. Good, and perfect, and no trouble. The perfect little brother.

And not a burden.

Because that's how he felt when Dean got that look.

Finally, the bell rang, and Sam was off like a shot, books already packed into his bag before the class was even dismissed.

He made short work of the busy hallways, dodging the mass of excited kids milling around the lockers, some hanging around to wait for friends, others heading purposefully toward the exit.

Finally, he was outside, taking the steps two at a time, looking for his brother…

Which is when he noticed something else entirely. Something he wasn't expecting to see for another three days.

Dad's sleek black Chevrolet Impala, parked in the street directly in front of the school's main exit, all hard black lines and shiny chrome.

And Sam felt a chill run through him as the familiar tall figure leaning against the passenger door straightened as he caught sight of his youngest son.

Instinctively, Sam's eyes sought out Dean, who, it turned out, was only a few feet ahead of him, standing absolutely stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, kids streaming past him on either side; an island in the middle of a fast-flowing river.

Dad didn't move toward them, just stood looking at them, a slightly puzzled expression on his weathered face.

Sam looked from Dean to Dad and back again, suddenly aware of the rigid set to his brother's shoulders and the uncertainty of the older boy's footing, as if he'd been caught mid-stride and flash-frozen where he stood.

Sam moved first, jumping down the remaining steps and pulling up just behind his brother, his hand reaching out almost unconsciously for the older boy's shirt sleeve as he turned his gaze upwards, into round hazel eyes that reflected nothing short of terror.

Dean was scared.

Dean was scared of _Dad_.

The realization hit Sam in the chest like a wrecking ball, fingers tightening on Dean's arm and heart speeding up a little as Dad took a hesitant step toward them.

"Dean –?"

Dean looked down then as if only just returning to himself, eyes blinking furiously as he gradually processed his kid brother's presence. "It's okay, Sammy," he said automatically, pushing his brother slightly further behind him as he turned to meet their father's expectant gaze.

Sam, for once, didn't resist his brother's over-protectiveness, grip on Dean's arm becoming two-handed as Dad took another few steps toward them.

Something was wrong.

Something was _very_ wrong.

And Sam didn't need to be psychic to know that Dean felt it too.

"Boys –?" Dad's voice was its usual softly-spoken tenor, slightly questioning, a frown crinkling his dark brow.

Dean looked up at him, opened his mouth as if to speak, swallowed, before finally managing, "You're early," in a trembling voice.

Dad's frown deepened, at the same time a tiny smile breaking out on his lips. "Anyone would think you weren't happy to see me."

Sam glanced about them, oddly aware of the other kids, the other parents, all witness to this strange tableau, and he suddenly felt like he was trapped in one of those snow globes, a multitude of faces pressed against the outside of the glass, looking in at him as someone shook his world.

Dean made no reply, stood rigid. Good little soldier. But he was trembling. Sam could see that even from where he was standing, could feel the shudder through his arms.

"We didn't expect you for three days." Sam found his voice suddenly, stepping out from behind his brother, edging slightly in front of him and raising his chin.

Dean glanced down at him, blinking hard, voice dying in his throat.

_Dad holding a pillow over Sammy's face…_

The partially-amused expression on Dad's face altered slightly, almost imperceptibly, a tiny shift in the set of his mouth. "Yeah, well. I finished early," he said, voice just this side of indignant. "If that's okay with you, _Samuel_?"

Sam gulped. He knew he was in trouble when Dad used his Sunday name. But he still wouldn't let it go, dog with a bone, even when the hand that had been grasping Dean's shirt sleeve felt a sudden nervous tug backward: Dean trying to pull him away, trying to get him to back off.

But Sam, always questioning, always wanting to know _why_, didn't back off easily, standing his ground with a suspicious frown on his young face. "Why?" he demanded, giving voice to that constant need for answers and explanations. "Why are you back early?"

Dad's amused frown was now an annoyed grimace, and he took another step toward his younger son, storm clouds gathering in his darkening eyes.

Sam felt Dean trying once again to pull him away, but the younger boy stubbornly refused to budge.

"I don't have to answer to you, Sammy," Dad said through gritted teeth. "You're not my C.O., in case you hadn't noticed."

"And I don't think you're _ours_," Sam returned as quick as a flash, a slight intake of breath from his brother alerting him to the very real possibility that perhaps he'd gone too far this time, even if Dad _wasn't_ possessed.

If Dad's eyes were stormy before, there was lightning in them now. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded, another step forward, only an arm's length from Sam.

"He – he just meant –" Dean put in, finally finding his voice.

"You be quiet," Dad snapped, pointing a stern finger at his eldest son, who swallowed hard, before he turned his angry eyes back on his youngest. "I _won't_ have you disrespecting me like this, Samuel Winchester –" he snapped, suddenly raising his hand toward the smaller boy.

Sam's eyes widened considerably, a sharp intake of breath preceding a high-pitched, "But you said –" before he was cut off by Dean suddenly grabbing him by the back of his shirt collar and yanking him behind him, almost pulling the kid off his feet.

Sam looked up at Dean as the older boy turned quickly to face their father.

"Don't you touch him –" Dean spat through gritted teeth, never getting to finish the sentence as the back of his father's hand suddenly connected hard with his left cheekbone.

Sam froze, clinging to Dean's arm as the older boy staggered back a step under the force of the blow. Regaining his senses, Sam started pulling at his big brother's arm, trying to pull him away.

But Dean didn't move, just stood there, a look of absolute shock on his face as a red welt colored his cheekbone and a tiny trail of blood began to ooze from his lower lip.

Sam could hear Dean's breathing, short and ragged, even louder than his own hammering heart, the older boy continuing to stand there motionless for a second, trembling from head to toe, gazing up at his father through a watery haze as he blinked back stunned tears.

Dad had never hit Dean before. Hell, Dad had never hit either of them before, and Sam couldn't shake the feeling that this was all his fault.

Dad's jaw was so tense Sam thought it might break, his eyes dark and unreadable. He looked away for a second, absently spinning the wedding band on his left hand; the same hand that had just struck his eldest son in front of a dozen witnesses.

But curiously, no one turned in their direction: students, parents, teachers, all continuing along their way as if nothing untoward had happened.

Sam glanced around him uncertainly before finally managing to squeak, "I just meant –" before his voice hitched in his throat, breathing labored as he blinked back tears of his own, "– that you said – that you said that we should make sure it was really you. If – if you ever did anything – anything unexpected…" He trailed off, for once sounding like an ordinary nine-year-old boy, clinging to the arm of an older brother who suddenly looked much younger than thirteen.

"Get in the car." Dad's growl was low and threatening, and Dean didn't resist when Sam tugged on his arm, not looking up at his father as the younger boy steered them in a wide berth around him.

Sam didn't hear his father's heavy footsteps behind them immediately, almost as if he had paused for some reason before following his sons to the waiting Impala. Despite his innate curiosity, Sam didn't turn to investigate, merely continued to push Dean toward the big Chevy, his older brother seemingly unable to move under his own power.

When they finally reached the car, Dean stopped, opening the rear passenger door with a shaky hand, leaning against the metal frame as if he'd collapse in a heap on the sidewalk if he didn't, bending forward slightly as he motioned for Sam to get in the back seat.

The younger boy made to follow Dean's instructions, his big brother turning away from him slightly as he passed, as if not wanting him to see the tear making its way down his bruised cheek.

Sam paused, half in, half out of the car, hand resting gently on the one Dean had clenched tightly around the doorframe.

"You believe me something's wrong now?" Sam asked urgently, ducking his head into the Chevy as their father closed in on their position.

Dean swallowed hard, eyes awash with betrayal as he carefully watched their father open the driver's door and get into the car without a single glance in their direction.

"Yeah, Sammy," he muttered, voice thick with choked back tears. "I believe you now."

**TBC**

* * *

Chapter Two coming soon! If anyone would like to leave me a review that would just be lovely of you!

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed and put me on alert! I'm overwhelmed! As a reward, here's a bit more Wee!chester angst...

**CHAPTER TWO**

Dean never sat in the back of the Impala, not if there was a chance he could sit up front with Dad.

This had caused many arguments over the years: pleading, crying, even the occasional bout of violence, which usually resulted in hours of silent treatment as Sammy sat in the back with his arms folded sullenly across his chest, glowering at the back of his older brother's head.

But today Dean was only too happy to share the back with a trembling Sam, who had scooched along the bench seat and was sitting as close to his big brother as he could get without actually climbing onto his lap.

Dean's cheek was smarting, his lip throbbing, and his eyes burning something fierce as he fought back salty tears. Soldiers didn't cry, Dean knew that. Dad had been drilling it into him since his was four years old. But right now, the tears were hot behind his eyelids, and no amount of blinking seemed enough to hold them back.

He suddenly became aware of Sammy's head against his shoulder, trying to comfort, trying to reassure. Trying to say, _I'm sorry I made Dad so mad he hit you._

Dean slipped his arm around Sam's shoulders, the younger boy still trembling, although not half as much as his big brother. He squeezed gently: _Don't worry Sammy. It's not your fault._

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, where John Winchester's dark, stormy orbs were currently fixed resolutely on the road ahead, lips pursed tightly in an angry grimace.

Dean bit his lip, replaying the last ten minutes over and over, like a VCR stuck on perpetual repeat.

And then Dad glanced up into the rearview, and for a split second the two of them were looking at each other.

Dad looked away first.

That's when Dean heard a tiny sniffle at his side, looked down and saw that Sammy was chewing his lip and crying silently.

Which was all the incentive Dean needed.

Setting his jaw, he tightened his grip on his brother, met his father's gaze reflected squarely in the mirror, and muttered, "Don't worry, Sammy. It's gonna be alright."

Even if he didn't believe it for a second.

* * *

"What's he doing now?"

"Shh!"

"Dean –!"

"Sammy, just –"

"I wanna see!"

Dean pushed Sam behind him, turning to the younger boy with a stern look on his face. "Will you just stop? He's gonna hear!"

"But I wanna see!" Sam shoved Dean hard in the stomach, forcing him back a step so that he could usurp his position, peering out through the gap between their bedroom door and the door jamb.

Dean aimed a frown at the back of Sam's head as the little runt got a good look before he turned back with a puzzled expression on his face. "He's cleaning his guns," Sam announced, seemingly perplexed.

"Coulda told you that," Dean chided. "If you'd let me get a word in."

"But – but… _Why_'s he cleaning his guns?"

Dean shrugged. "'Cause they're dirty?" he hazarded, pushing Sam back out of the way and peering into the grubby apartment's even grubbier kitchen. "He's just come back from a hunt," he added. "What else would he be doing with them?"

John Winchester was sitting at the kitchen table, weapons all laid out in front of him, methodically disassembling, cleaning and reassembling each and every one with the practiced ease of a seasoned soldier.

Everyday routine in the Winchester kitchen.

"But – but – shouldn't he be…?" Sam stopped, biting his lip as he tried unsuccessfully to dislodge his big brother from his vantage point at the door.

Dean looked down at him, arching an eyebrow. "What?" he asked. "Shouldn't he be what? Suffocating us in our sleep?"

Sam looked away. "No," he said slowly. "I just meant –"

"Boys, what's going on in there?" Dad barked suddenly.

Dean's whole demeanor changed at the sound, body stiffening as one hand gripped the door handle and the other automatically groped for Sam's shoulder.

He pressed his eye back to the gap between the door and the door jamb, watching Dad carefully as he sat with his head to one side, momentarily pausing in his rhythmic, mechanical cleaning of a small silver handgun while he waited for Dean to respond.

"Nothing," was the best answer Dean could muster on short notice.

Dad frowned, eyes drifting lazily to the door where Dean was standing, before resuming his routine. "That's a lot of noise for nothing."

Dean grimaced. "Sorry sir," he replied, the words issuing from his mouth as automatically as the hand that was pushing Sam further behind him.

"Dean, you're supposed to be putting your brother to bed, not keeping him awake with your chatter."

Dean sighed heavily. "Yes sir," he said, before again repeating the two words that seemed to fall from his mouth with greater frequency than any others. "Sorry sir."

He closed the door quietly before frowning down at Sam, who was staring up at him, all wide-eyed and innocent. "I told you you were making too much noise," the older boy admonished his little brother.

Sam bit his lip as Dean turned toward him, eyes lighting on the blotch of purple and yellow marring his big brother's pale cheek.

Dean saw him looking and absently ruffled the younger boy's hair reassuringly. "Come on, kiddo," he said. "You heard what the old man said."

Sam didn't move, Dean squinting at him uncertainly before turning away and making a move toward his brother's bed.

"I heard what he said," Sam agreed eventually. "And I saw what he did."

Dean risked a brief glance in the kid's direction, but didn't respond, instead turning down Sam's bedclothes and motioning for him to get in.

Sam frowned, but still didn't move. "Dean?"

Dean, every bit as stubborn as Sam, continued to maintain his silence, a trick he'd learned a long time ago that was guaranteed to make his kid brother crazy.

Wordlessly, he got into his own bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and turning his back to Sam as if to signal, _I'm _so_ not talking about this right now._

But Sam wasn't that easily discouraged, and Dean felt his mattress give slightly as the younger boy perched himself on the edge of his big brother's bed.

Dean sighed. "Sammy –"

"He _hit_ you, Dean," Sam said simply, hand coming to rest on his brother's shoulder. "And that's not right. You know that. Dad's never hit us. Even when we probably deserved it. And – and – it was my fault. I made him mad. And I'm sorry. And I don't want him to hit you again. And if he does, what do we do, Dean? Dean?"

Sam finally stopped for air, and Dean flipped onto his back before pushing himself up and propping himself against the rickety wooden headboard. He looked at Sam for a second, gauging the fear reflected in the kid's dark eyes. "We gotta keep an eye on him," Dean said at length, pushing a stray curl off of Sam's forehead. "That's all. If he – if he does anything else – weird – then we'll have to… we'll have to …"

"We'll have to what?"

Dean managed to dredge up his well-worn _everything's going to be alright, little brother_ grin from somewhere. "I'll think of something," he reassured the younger boy, wondering for a split second what he would do when Sammy got too old to believe him. "Now go to sleep, squirt."

* * *

The instant Dean opened his eyes, he sensed it.

Something in the room that shouldn't be there.

His hand snaked silently beneath his pillow, taut fingers curling nervously around the reassuringly solid hilt of his hunting knife as he peered fearfully into the cloying darkness.

He could hear Sammy's breathing, slow and regular, as it had been since the younger boy had fallen asleep two hours ago.

Dean had heard every breath, eyes closed but sleep not touching him as he waited.

Listening.

Alert to the slightest sound. The slightest threat.

If something – some_one_ – wanted to hurt Sammy, then they'd have to go through Dean first.

He tensed as a dark shadow fell across Sam's blissfully oblivious face, a dark silhouette, bending slightly, fingers of one hand reaching to brush the little boy's hair gently off his forehead, while the other hand sank into the thin pillow beneath his head, tugging slightly.

Which was when Dean pounced, launching himself out of his bed, knife brandished in front of him, all knees and elbows as he collided with something solid and heavy between the two beds.

Knocked off balance, the intruder toppled with a grunt, falling onto Sam's bed with Dean on top of him, the teenager pressing his knife to what he hoped was the interloper's throat as he straddled the dark shape on the bed, right elbow shoved against what was unmistakably a collarbone while his left pressed down against a muscular shoulder.

"Dean?" Sam mumbled groggily, reaching out and snapping on the bedside light.

Momentarily distracted, Dean felt strong hands encircle his wrists as the world tilted unaccountably, and he suddenly found himself flipped over onto his back, a crushing weight on top of him as steely fingers dug into his skin, pinning his hands above his head. He cursed, struggling to free his knife hand, kicking out at the bulky figure pushing him against Sam's bed.

"Dean? What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Dean panted hard, blinking in the too-bright light as he squinted up into his father's angry dark eyes hovering inches above him.

"Let go!" Dean insisted, the initial shock dulling somewhat as he tried to push his father's considerably greater bulk from off of him. "I mean it!"

He continued struggling to free his right hand, fingers white around the hilt of the hunting knife, squirming to get out from underneath his father, who continued to pin him to Sam's bed, a look of angry disbelief darkening his already dark features.

"What the _hell_ –?" Dad growled through gritted teeth, tightening his grip on Dean's right wrist as the boy continued to struggle valiantly.

"Dad, stop it!" Sam begged suddenly, drawing Dean's attention momentarily away from his father to where his kid brother was crouched against his headboard, eyes so huge they looked like they might pop right out of his head. "You're hurting him!"

That got Dad's attention, but he didn't release his grip on his older son immediately, merely looked down at him for a second before finally plucking the knife from the boy's fingers.

Dean lay there, breathing hard, blinking up at his father who continued to pin him to the bed for several more seconds before he slowly got up off of him, one hand still gripping Dean's right wrist while the other gripped the hunting knife.

He pulled Dean up into a sitting position, crouching down in front of him with a perplexed expression on his face, brows drawn together over eyes so dark Dean could barely see the irises. "Mind telling me what the hell that was all about?" he demanded of his eldest, the boy averting his eyes and steadfastly refusing to meet his father's interrogative gaze. "Dean?"

Dad tightened his grip on Dean's wrist, shaking him slightly, and he looked up, grim defiance barely masking the terror in his hazel eyes. "I won't let you," he said in a small voice, eyes slipping to the knife in Dad's hand.

Dad followed the direction of his gaze. "Let me what?" he demanded, voice low, almost – almost _uncertain_.

Dean set his jaw, straightened, looked his father right in the eye. "I won't let you hurt Sammy," he insisted, gritting his teeth before sucking in a surprised gasp as Dad's fingers convulsively tightened still further around his wrist.

"Dad –" Sam put in again, carefully moving closer to his brother. "Please don't –"

Dad glanced at Sam before abruptly letting Dean go, collapsing back onto his haunches as the color drained visibly from his face.

Dean rubbed at his sore wrist, wincing slightly, which only succeeded in reminding him of the dull throb to his left cheek.

Dad was staring at him, back pushed against the side of Dean's bed as if for support. "Dean, you could have killed me," he said quietly, no trace of anger in his voice, his body suddenly boneless as he fought to stay upright.

"I won't let you," Dean repeated, pulling Sam to his side as the younger boy crept toward the edge of the bed.

Dad frowned, opened his mouth as if to speak, before closing it again, teeth grinding audibly. "Why would I hurt Sammy, Dean?" he managed. When Dean didn't answer, Dad raised his voice slightly. "Dean? What makes you think I'd hurt Sammy?"

Dean's fingers brushed unconsciously against his cheekbone, and Dad suddenly squinted at him, hand darting out and grabbing him by the chin, causing the boy to flinch involuntarily as his face was tilted upwards, toward the muted light cast by the bedside lamp.

Dad's face paled still further as he scrutinized his son's bruised flesh as if it was the first time he'd seen it. "How did you get that?" he demanded, suddenly all hard angles again, for all the world a living, breathing replica of his car.

Dean stared up at him uncertainly, a slight crease to his brow, there for a second then gone again.

"Dean, I asked you a question," Dad barked, hand slipping to the back of his older boy's neck, immobilizing his head so that he was forced to look up into his father's eyes. "How did you get that bruise? Have you been fighting again? I don't have time to go looking for another school if you get yourself expelled, Dean."

Dean continued to stare at him, breathing slightly shallow as a thin sheen of sweat gathered on his forehead.

"Dad –?" Sam put a shaky hand on his father's arm, almost as if he was trying to push him away from his brother. "Dad, don't –"

"I wasn't talking to you, Sam," Dad snapped, attention still fixed on his elder son. "Dean, how did you get that bruise?"

Dean swallowed hard, glanced sideways at a confused-looking Sam before managing, "I fell. In – in gym class," in a strangled voice.

Sam's brows drew together in a bewildered frown. "But Dean –"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean's voice dropped to barely a whisper, a reassuring hand on his brother's knee. He looked up into their father's eyes, looming close above them, dark and uncertain, but not angry.

Dad straightened, and Dean wasn't quite sure whether the look that passed across his face was skepticism or confusion. He put a large hand on Dean's shoulder, bending down toward him, and Dean noticed Sam edge backwards ever-so-slightly.

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you?" Dad said quietly. "If someone hurt you?"

Dean just stared at him, heart hammering against his ribs as Sam snaked an arm through his and drew himself right up against his side.

"Dean?" There was desperation in Dad's eyes, real fear clouding his features.

Dean paused for a second before answering. "Yes," he said, voice guarded and carefully measured. "I'd tell you."

Dad nodded, a brief smile flickering across his face. "Good boy," he said, reaching to ruffle Dean's hair and trying to pretend he didn't notice the barely perceptible flinch. "You boys should go to sleep. You've got school tomorrow."

Dean nodded obediently, but didn't move, still sitting as close to Sam as he could get, until Dad finally pulled himself to his feet and, after a brief pause, turned and headed for the door.

Dean felt Sam wilt against his side, but didn't allow himself the luxury of relaxing, tensing still further when Dad suddenly ducked his head back into the room.

"I – er – I might not be here in the morning," he said, trying again for the reassuring smile. "Got a call from Jefferson. Somethin' he needs a little help with. I might have to go tonight. That's – that's why I came in here…" he trailed off, eyes sliding down to Dean's hunting knife, still grasped in his unsteady hand. "I was hoping you'd be awake. So I could tell you. Didn't want to just leave a note…"

The two boys just looked at him, neither one of them speaking, and he frowned again, drawing a tired hand across his forehead. "I shouldn't be long," he assured them. "Couple of days, maybe? Okay?" He looked pointedly at Dean, who merely bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Dad nodded, shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright then. You boys be good while I'm gone."

"Yes sir," Dean managed.

A flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of Dad's mouth. "Good boy." Then, "And Dean?"

Dean looked up, but said nothing.

"Take care of your brother."

Dean glanced sideways at Sam, who was staring at him owl-eyed. "Yes sir," he said.

Isn't that what he always did?

* * *

"He's gone," Sam whispered, drawing back the bedroom curtain as the unmistakable rumble of Dad's big Impala dwindled off into the night.

He turned to look at Dean, soft moonlight paling his already-pale features as his fingers continued to grip the musty green curtain.

Dean lifted his head slightly from where it had been propped against his raised knees, almost as if he'd been on the verge of passing out; and for all Sam knew, he had been.

The older boy met his little brother's gaze thoughtfully, expression nervously determined, but guarded, as if he was attempting to hide something he didn't want Sam to see.

Sam knelt on the bed next to him, one hand resting gently on top of his brother's, and Dean realized right then that the jig was up. No point trying to hide anything from Sammy.

He raised his head, set his jaw and tried to get a handle on his scattershot breathing which, along with the unnatural roundness of his eyes, was a dead giveaway that Dean wasn't quite as fearlessly in control of the situation as he'd have his baby brother believe.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said solemnly before Dean could offer any words of reassurance, however hollow. "I'm scared too."

Dean swallowed and took a breath, fingers lightly brushing his brother's as he met his gaze just as solemnly. "I won't let him hurt you," he repeated, the first time he'd said it aloud since he'd said it to Dad, a dull echo of what had been running through his head constantly since last night.

Sam held his gaze. "I know you won't," he said confidently, squeezing Dean's hand. "But something's definitely wrong with him. I mean, how could he not remember hitting you?"

Dean shrugged, eyes drifting to the curtained window.

"You think he really _is_ possessed?" Sam asked, causing Dean to refocus his attention in the kid's direction.

He bit his lip uncertainly. "I don't know, Sammy," he admitted. "Maybe. Or – or – maybe something's messing with his head. Made him forget. Maybe that's what made him…" He stopped, looking away, down at his fingers, still entwined with Sam's. Then he looked up again, an almost hopeful expression hesitantly lighting his face. "Maybe something _made_ him hit me – and – and he didn't even know he was doing it."

Sam recognized the look in Dean's eyes then; it was that same look he got last Christmas morning when Dad was away on a hunt and the phone had rung. "See, Sammy? I told you he'd not forgotten…"

Sam looked away, not sure he could stand to see the same desperate stab of disappointment that would inevitably darken Dean's features as soon as he realized yet again that Dad wasn't Superman. Just like when Pastor Jim's voice had emanated from the telephone receiver, "Happy Christmas, Dean! Is your dad there? He – he didn't leave you alone on Christmas, did he…?" and Dean had given the phone to Sam before disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door.

"Maybe." Sam said the word quietly, imbued it with as much optimism as he was able. Just in the hope of avoiding seeing that look on Dean's face again.

Dean looked at him for a long moment, façade almost crumbling completely before his game face slipped hesitantly back into place. "We have to go," he said suddenly, swinging his legs out from under his bedclothes and standing decisively.

Sam blinked, pulling back a little. "Go where?" he asked uncertainly, voice faltering.

Dean gritted his teeth, eyes darting around the room as the wheels in his brain started to kick into high gear. "Away," he said finally, tugging open one of the drawers in the dresser across from Sam's bed. "Away from here."

He began pulling out handfuls of Sam's clothes, tossing them onto the younger boy's bed before heading over to the old wooden closet, which tipped at a crazy angle as he began rooting frantically around inside.

"Dean –?" Sam moved toward his brother, the older boy suddenly withdrawing from the closet, duffel bag clutched tightly between trembling fingers. "Dean?"

Dean didn't look at him, instead turning back toward the dresser, dragging out some of his own clothes before tossing them onto the pile already on the bed and proceeding to maniacally stuff them into the duffel.

"_Dean!_" Sam caught his older brother's wrist, momentarily stilling his jerky movements, much as he had at breakfast when Dean had been absently filling his book bag.

Dean stopped to look at him, breathing hard as he tried to find the words to answer Sam's unasked question. "We're not safe here, Sammy," he managed eventually. "It's like you said: Something's wrong. I don't know if the dream was a warning or – or if Dad even really hit me…" The confusion was obvious on his face as his fingers uncertainly traced the bruise across his cheekbone.

"He hit you," Sam told him with an air of certainty. "I saw him."

Dean ducked his head slightly. "I know," he agreed, again struggling to meet Sam's gaze. "But until we know what's going on – what's wrong with Dad – we're – we're not safe here. Right?"

Dean was looking to his kid brother for some kind of assent, some kind of confirmation that Dean was doing the right thing, making the right call.

Sam nodded slowly, not used to this uncharacteristic self-doubt plaguing his invincible big brother. "Right," he agreed, trying to hold Dean's gaze, keep him focused, his brother's big hazel eyes skittishly darting about the room as if he was terrified something was about to come out of the wallpaper and eat his little brother alive if he didn't do something to protect him. "So what do we do?"

Dean took a breath, slowly regaining some kind of equilibrium, eyes finally managing to focus on his brother, as if all he'd been waiting for was Sam's approval: like a foot soldier suddenly without a C.O., questioning his own ability to lead. "We need help," he said decisively, voice regaining some of its strength as he regained some semblance of self-confidence just from seeing the look of absolute trust in Sam's eyes.

"Pastor Jim?" Sam suggested.

"Well we can't go to Jefferson," Dean pointed out. "That's who Dad said had called him for help, right?"

Sam nodded. "Bobby's the expert in demonic possession. Maybe he could help?"

Dean shook his head, frowning, brain running over the miles of highway he'd helped Dad navigate since he was old enough to read a map.

If there was one subject Dean had paid attention to in school, it was Geography.

"Someday," Dad had told him time and time again, "something might happen – to me – to Sammy – and if you can't find your way to get help – from a friend six states away, or a hospital in the next town over – then it could mean the difference between life and death for one of us. You understand that, son?"

Dean understood only too well, and spent almost as much time poring over Dad's old map book as he did poring over his homework. So much so that Sam often found his brother's almost encyclopedic knowledge of American road topography bordering on the freakish.

"Minnesota's closer than Bobby's place," Dean declared, a finality in his voice that suggested the decision had already been made. "We go to Pastor Jim's."

Sam nodded his agreement. While he couldn't reel off a list of highway numbers and every town each intersected like Dean could, he knew enough to know his brother was right, and to trust the older boy's instincts. "We should call him –"

"No." Again, that finality in Dean's voice. "Just in case he – just in case he calls Dad."

For a second, Sam didn't understand, the grim reality of their precarious situation only sinking in when Dean turned away, biting his lip uncertainly as he returned to his haphazard packing of the duffel bag. "You don't think he'll believe us?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean glanced up at him. "Would you?"

Sam frowned. "Pastor Jim knows we wouldn't make something like this up, Dean."

"Sammy, we're kids," Dean pointed out, grabbing the small pocket knife Dad always left in the nightstand and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans; looking anything _but_ a kid at that particular moment. "If it comes down to a choice between believing a kid and believing a grown-up, grown-ups always stick together. Once we get to Pastor Jim's it won't matter whether he does or doesn't believe us, and it doesn't matter if he calls Dad, because as soon as Dad shows up, Pastor Jim'll be able to see for himself."

"And Dad won't be able to hurt us."

Dean just stared at his brother for a second, Sam's words making his chest hurt. "No," he said softly, hefting the duffel bag up onto his shoulder. "No, he won't."

He turned then, heading out into the kitchen where his eyes lighted first on the loaded shotgun Dad always left by the front door, before straying to the hunting knife his father had taken from him earlier, which now lay on the rickety kitchen table atop a rumpled twenty dollar bill.

Immediately dismissing the shotgun as impractical, Dean picked up the knife before he picked up the money, shoving the weapon into the duffel bag before nervously resuming chewing on his lip as his fingers toyed with the bank note.

"You think twenty bucks'll get us on a bus to Blue Earth?" Sam asked, at his brother's shoulder before Dean even realized the kid had followed him from the bedroom.

Dean took a breath, pocketing the money before heading off to scour the food cupboard. "Better not spend our whole bankroll at once, Sammy," he advised absently, grimacing at the half-empty pack of Oreos and single Hershey Bar lurking at the back of the cupboard. Grocery shopping never was high on Dad's To Do list, and Dean hadn't had chance to go to the store in a few days.

He grabbed their meager provisions before moving on to the fridge, which told an even sadder tale than the cupboard, boasting only two cheese slices, half a sour carton of milk, one bottle of Bud and a bulb of garlic. He frowned at the garlic, briefly considered pocketing the bottle of beer, before closing the fridge door empty-handed.

"Sammy," he said, turning slightly. "You better get those big puppy dog eyes of yours warmed up, 'cause I think we're gonna need to hitch a ride."

* * *

"It's a long way to Minnesota, Dean," Sam murmured, glancing about himself and shivering slightly in the early morning chill as he pulled his thin denim jacket tighter around himself.

Dean noticed the younger boy's discomfort, as he noticed everything when it came to Sam, and slipped an arm around the kid's shoulders, pulling him closer ostensibly to share body heat, but also, perhaps, because he didn't like the look of the truck stop they had found themselves in any more than Sam did.

"It's a long way to Tipperary too," he returned, trying to disguise the fact that his teeth were chattering, although this wasn't solely due to the cold. "Compared to that, Blue Earth should be a snap."

Sam glanced sideways at him, a skeptical look in his wide eyes. "Do you even know_ how_ to hitch a ride?" he asked.

"Puppy dog eyes, Sammy," Dean reminded him. "We need to get some nice lady to pick us up –"

"Rather than a psycho child molester, you mean?" Sam returned, pursing his lips.

Dean tried to grin, but didn't quite make it there. "Like you even know what that means, squirt."

Sam frowned. "Mr. Avery," he replied, quick as a flash. "Remember him?"

Dean shuddered involuntarily.

"He kept saying how pretty you were –"

"Shut up, runt," Dean managed, gritting his teeth. "You know Mr. Avery's off limits."

"Offered Dad a deal on the rent and everything –" Sam continued as if his brother hadn't even spoken, grinning mischievously.

"Sam –!" Dean warned.

Sam shrugged, turning mock-innocent eyes up toward his brother. "What?" he asked. "I was just saying…"

"Well don't." Dean still had nightmares about the slimy Super in their last apartment block. Not that he wouldn't have been able to take the creep out if he'd tried anything. But still. That wasn't the point…

…Although that was _exactly_ the point, he realized with a sigh, casting a wary eye over the vehicles littering the parking lot of the seedy diner he'd remembered from when they'd first driven into Ankeny, Iowa less than two months ago.

As Sam had astutely managed to point out, there were a hell of a lot of freaks in this world, and not all of them were of a supernatural nature.

"So," Dean said, pulling Sam closer as a trucker the size of a Sherman tank eyed them inquisitively as he headed into the diner. "Nice lady driver, right?"

Sam shoved his hands further into his pockets, breath fogging the air in front of him as he exhaled nervously, eyes skittishly following the trucker into the diner. "I don't think nice lady drivers stop here, Dean," he said, voice just this side of strangled. "Certainly not at one o'clock in the morning."

Dean gulped as a beat-up blue van squealed to a halt at the curb in front of them, the passenger door seeming to creak open of its own accord, like Dracula's coffin in one of those old black 'n white movies Dean used to delight in forcing Sam to watch when he was little.

Taking a deep breath, Dean risked a hesitant step forward, Sam tugging on his sleeve all the while.

"Dean? Maybe this isn't such a good idea…"

A dark shape moved in the gloom of the van's interior, both boys jerking a step backwards as a loud thud reverberated through the cab, followed by the overhead light suddenly snapping on and illuminating the vehicle's single occupant.

"…Maybe we should call Pastor Jim…"

Greasy hair framed a round, ruddy face, two tiny black eyes set close together either side of a flattened nose that looked like it had been smacked into a brick wall one too many times; broken yellow teeth stuck out of a thin mouth at odd angles as grubby fingers, thick like sausages, pawed the passenger side of the filthy black bench seat, narrow lips stretching into something that might have been a leer as he leaned toward Dean.

Dean swallowed. Hard.

"You boys need a ride?"

* * *

Kind of a micro-cliffie there, folks... Don't want you all throwing yourselves over the edge!

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** And we're back!

**CHAPTER THREE**

Despite his best efforts, Dean couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from the hairy mole blighting the chin of the blue van driver, who was currently leaning hopefully in his direction, all big hands and sweat.

"Dean –?" Sam murmured, barely audibly. "I really don't think –"

Dean didn't seem to hear him, still gazing up at the van driver and not liking what he saw one bit. _Jeez_, he thought to himself, trying to remember to breathe. _It may as well say "Child Killer for Hire" in three foot letters on the side of his van… _Out loud, he managed, "Uh. That's okay. I think we're good."

Sam was hanging onto his arm so tightly his fingers had started to go numb.

"Where're you boys headed?" the guy asked, obviously not taking "no" for an answer, beady eyes roving from Dean to Sam and back again. His hand slid further along the bench seat toward them, and Dean took an involuntary step backward, tugging Sam with him.

"It's okay," he repeated, voice kind of high-pitched. "We – we're waiting for someone."

The guy frowned suspiciously. "Who?" he demanded, continuing to give them both the once-over.

Something in the tone of the guy's voice and the way his attention flicked casually to Sam for a second restored the attitude Dean had temporarily been lacking. "None o' your business, Jethro," he snapped, back straightening, brows drawn together in a suspicious grimace.

_No one_ looked at Sammy that way and lived to tell the tale.

The driver just gazed at him for a second, before suddenly breaking out into a toothy grin. "Quite a mouth you got on you there, kid," he said, eyes lingering on Dean's mouth a lot longer than could ever be described as decent. "Come on," he said, patting the seat next to him. "Two little things like you shouldn't be out here all on your lonesome. Let me give you a ride. Where d'you wanna go?"

_Anywhere but with you, creep,_ Dean found himself thinking, approaching headlights momentarily distracting him from the van driver, who somehow managed to get a fistful of Dean's sleeve before the boy even realized what had happened.

Attention snapping back to the sleazeball, Dean squinted up at him before hissing, "If you wanna keep your fingers, pal, you better get them off my arm."

The guy laughed at that, ugly chuckle dying in the back of his throat as he caught the almost feral look in the older kid's eyes.

But he didn't let go of the boy's jacket, deciding that brute force might succeed where reason, thus far, had not.

"C'mon, kid," he repeated, thick fingers managing to find purchase on Dean's wrist as he roughly tugged him a step closer to the van. "Anywhere you wanna go –"

Which was when he suddenly felt cold metal against his knuckles and looking down realized the kid had somehow got a pocket knife pressed against his fingers, as if he'd conjured the thing out of thin air.

"Whoa!" The van driver released Dean's arm immediately, retreating into the dark safety of the cab, just as the sound of an approaching engine began to accompany the searching headlights.

Dean fell back a step as the creep abruptly relinquished his grip, knife still raised threateningly as he shoved Sam further behind him and glanced off to his right, toward the approaching headlights.

A tiny part of him almost hoped the vehicle drawing up in front of the van was a cop car, but when the headlights dimmed he realized it was nothing so dramatic: no way the cavalry was riding in to save them in a pink VW Beetle.

As the vehicle came to a halt, the door swung open forcefully and a strong female voice demanded, "You boys alright?"

Dean nodded shakily, realizing immediately that the Beetle driver had parked there for a reason: nose to nose with the blue van, just in case the creep tried to force the two young kids he was hassling into his vehicle before making a break for it.

A ghost of a grateful smile flitted across Dean's face…until he realized his knight in shining armor was in fact a five foot nothing cheerleader in a Snoopy t-shirt, blonde pigtails sticking out at quirky angles as she cast a murderous look in the van driver's direction while simultaneously blowing a rather impressive bubble with her shocking pink bubblegum.

"Buffy the friggin' Vampire Slayer," Dean muttered, remembering that lame horror flick Sam had begged they sneak into the movies to see a couple of months earlier.

"And then some," Sam breathed, reminding his older brother that he was still there.

The van's gears made a sudden grinding noise as the passenger door was abruptly slammed shut, the creepy driver reversing three feet before slamming into gear and erratically swerving around the Beetle before accelerating away empty-handed.

Dean stood gazing after the van, a mild look of confused shock on his face as he groped behind him for Sam.

The girl turned to watch the decrepit vehicle speed off before returning her attention back to Dean and Sam, throwing them a reassuring smile that lit up the soft brown eyes lurking behind her pink-framed glasses.

She took a cautious step toward them, hands raised soothingly in front of her. "You boys okay?" she repeated, eyes hovering over the knife still clutched in Dean's trembling hand.

Dean glanced down, carried out a quick mental threat assessment, before closing the knife and returning it to the pocket of his jeans. "Yeah," he said guardedly, before adding, "Thanks to you."

The girl beamed at him, and Dean was uncannily reminded of the fairy Pastor Jim always insisted on sticking on top of his Christmas tree.

"Creepy sonofa –" The girl stopped mid-sentence, grinning even wider. "I guess I oughta watch my language with little kids around," she chided herself.

"Nothin' we've not heard before," Dean assured her, before adding, "And we ain't so little."

He glanced at Sam, more to get a measure of the first impression his kid brother was getting of the kooky cheerleader than anything else. From the grin plastered across the younger boy's face, Dean guessed Sam wasn't getting any child molester / evil child-killing demon vibes off the girl either.

"I'm Lia," the girl said, taking another step toward them, hand outstretched.

Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking her hand warily. "Dean," he introduced himself, before inclining his head in Sam's direction. "My brother, Sammy."

"Nice to meet you," the girl continued to smile, surprising Sam by offering to shake his hand too.

The younger boy glanced briefly at Dean for assent, before politely taking the proffered hand. "It's Sam," he told her with a frown in his big brother's direction.

Lia giggled. "Aw, well aren't you just the sweetest thing?" she cooed, ruffling Sam's hair and causing a malicious grin to spread across his brother's face. Sam tossed him a scowl before returning Lia's smile. "You know," the girl was saying, taking a step back, hands on hips as she appraised the boys somberly. "You guys really shouldn't be alone like this at this time of night. Where are your parents?"

Dean opened his mouth, but thought better of answering, _"Well, our mom got burned up by some kind of evil supernatural entity and we think our dad's trying to kill us,"_ instead merely shrugging and looking down at his sneakers.

Lia nodded thoughtfully, eyes running over the boys' hand-me-down clothes, lingering over the bruise purpling Dean's cheek. On the other hand, they were clean and fairly decently turned out, she reasoned; both a little on the skinny side, but they didn't look malnourished or anything. So not street kids. "You boys looking for a ride?" She gestured behind herself, toward the Beetle, which was piled high with boxes and bags, as if Lia was transporting her whole life right along with her.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "You got room for passengers?"

Lia's laugh was like tinkling glass. "Oh sure, honey. You boys aren't exactly NFL-sized, now are you?"

Dean shrugged again, still eyeing the car uncertainly.

"Where are you headed anyway?"

Dean's face became even more unreadable, and he made no attempt to answer.

Lia's dazzling smile never even faltered. "Me?" she continued, as if her question had not gone unanswered. "I'm headed for St. Paul. New job. New apartment." She giggled awkwardly. "Who knows, I might even get myself a new man while I'm at it!"

Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him hopefully. "Nice lady driver…" the younger boy muttered so that only Dean could hear.

"We – we're headed for our –" Dean faltered slightly. "Our uncle's place in Blue Earth."

The girl grinned incandescently. "Oh wow, really? I used to have a cousin lived there! I can take you as far as the I90 if you like? Maybe your uncle could come get you from there? He really shouldn't have let you guys hitchhike…"

"He – he doesn't know we're coming," Dean replied, wondering why he felt he owed the cheerleader an explanation. "Kind of a spur of the moment thing…" He trailed off, grateful when Lia didn't ask any more questions, just glanced again at the bruise on his cheek and nodded.

She took a step back, tugging open the driver's door and inclining her head.

"So you guys coming or what?"

* * *

Lia had awesome taste in music. Which made Dean like her even more.

"How come you're into this old stuff?" he asked, genuinely interested, as Jimi Hendrix wailed out of the Beetle's tape deck and filled up the tiny gaps between the front seats' three passengers. Not quite trusting Lia enough yet to let her get that close to his little brother, Dean was squeezed in the middle, sharing the passenger seat with Sam, who was pressed up against the side window, eyes lolling tiredly despite the blare of Hendrix's axe.

Lia smiled a sad little smile. "My dad," she answered. "He loved all this stuff." She took a little breath, before continuing brightly, "Didn't win me any friends in school though. Guess I was supposed to be listening to New Kids on the Block or something." Dean made a face, and Lia laughed. "I knew I liked you!" she burst out, glancing sideways at him. "Recognized a kindred spirit right off the bat!"

Dean had relaxed enough to let a rare smile break out on his face, fingers finally relinquishing their death grip on the knife in his pocket.

"I knew you'd have a beautiful smile, too," Lia added, glancing at him again. "Just wasn't sure I'd get the chance to see it."

Dean's ears turned the same shade of pink as Lia's bubblegum, and his eyes slid to the floor in embarrassment.

"You boys don't look a whole lot alike," was Lia's next comment, which seemed to come so out of leftfield that Dean was left struggling for a reply.

Sam, however, seemed to have woken up a little by this point, and weighed in with, "He looks like our mom."

Dean's cheeks flushed a similar color to his ears. "Sam –"

"Well you do," Sam protested. "I've seen pictures. And Dad always says –"

"So you look more like your dad, huh?" Lia interrupted, risking a quick look at Sam.

The younger boy's face fell slightly at that, and he just shrugged noncommittally, retreating back into his corner of the passenger seat.

Lia recognized a conversational dead end when she smacked into one. "So…" she began slowly, as if treading on eggshells piled on top of broken glass. "Where's your mom?"

"She died," Sam answered instantly, feeling Dean tense up against him as the words left his mouth.

Lia seemed genuinely saddened. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said.

"It's okay," Sam assured her. "It was a long time ago."

Dean fixed his gaze on some distant point through the windshield that Lia doubted he could even see.

"My mom died last year," the girl told them quietly, finally dragging Dean's focus back into the interior of the car. She smiled again, like she seemed always to be smiling, but it was different, sadder; like the smile Dad got when he looked at Mom's picture. "It's hard," Lia added with a sigh. "Lots of memories that…" she trailed off, and Sam, too young to have memories as bittersweet as those Lia was describing, put in,

"Is that why you're moving to St. Paul? Too many memories?"

Lia's eyes left the road for a second, surprised by the question. "I – I guess," she faltered, and Sam just nodded.

"That's why Dad says he left Lawrence."

"Sam –"

"Oh, you boys are from Kansas?" Lia's eyes lit up, her whole face altering in an instant. "Lawrence. That's the place with the freaky cemetery, right? Gateway to the Netherworld or something?" She made a scary Halloween face and put on her best Vincent Price voice. "Where Demons can claw their way back from the depths of Hell itself…"

Dean and Sam just looked at her blankly.

She frowned and shrugged. "I guess you guys are too young to know about all that stuff, huh?"

The boys exchanged an impenetrable look, before Dean muttered, "Yeah. Too young."

An uncomfortable silence filled the car for several seconds, before Lia suddenly said, "So that's gotta be hard."

Dean frowned, glancing sideways at her, while Sam raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Losing your mom so young."

Dean's stony face returned like a lead shield, and Sam merely said, "I don't remember her. I was just a baby."

Lia nodded. "Gotta be hard on your dad too."

Dean did look up at that.

Lia smiled again. "I mean, I'm sure you boys are adorable and everything –"

"He's the adorable one," Dean interrupted, inclining his head in Sam's direction, who reciprocated by poking him hard in the ribs.

Lia grinned at them, popping her gum noisily. "But it must have been hard on your dad, huh? Bringing up two little boys all by himself?"

Dean breathed out slowly. "He wasn't by himself," he said, voice artificially neutral. "He had us."

Lia shook her head. "Oh, I didn't mean –"

"And he has lots of friends," Sam added brightly.

Lia nodded. "Well, that's good," she said. "I'm sure you and your dad's friends were a big help to him."

Dean frowned, but didn't comment.

"What's he do, anyway? Your dad? For a job…?"

Dean and Sam exchanged another unreadable glance. "He's a hunter," Dean replied at length, guarded again.

Jeez, this kid's defenses went up and down like a drawbridge.

"A hunter, huh?" Lia nodded. "Like of animals and stuff?" She didn't freak out like Dean thought she might, despite looking every bit a potential poster child for vegetarianism.

"Something like that," Dean agreed evasively.

"So…that where he is tonight? Hunting?"

Again that defensive little shrug.

Lia paused for a second, rain starting to pitter patter gently against the windshield. "You get on okay with your dad?" she asked quietly, not looking at Dean, more at Sam.

Another furtively exchanged glance.

"He's a little – uh – strict," Sam supplied, sounding almost as guarded as his big brother.

"Bet he'd be worried if he knew where you were."

Dean's eyes flashed in Lia's direction, defenses back up and prickling. "What makes you think he doesn't know where we are?" he demanded.

Lia shrugged, inclining her head toward Dean's cheek. "He give you that?"

"He doesn't hit us," Dean blurted automatically, sounding as if he knew the line by rote; and truth be told, the number of times he'd had to trot it out to Child Services, teachers, social workers, guidance counselors, it was really just reflex by now. He guessed it was easier to look at an unemployed single father with two occasionally beat-up kids and think the worst. After all, no one would believe that a man would intentionally put his two children directly in the path of potentially life-threatening supernatural evil, no matter how well-trained they were. What kind of father would do something like that?

Lia nodded, completely non-judgmental. "My dad hit me once," she admitted quietly, before adding quickly, "Just once. He'd had a really bad day, and I was being really obnoxious, and I guess he just snapped." She was sure she felt Dean lean in toward her then, just a fraction. But she might have imagined it.

"Did he say sorry?" Sam asked, and Lia got the feeling he was asking a totally different question.

"Yeah," she said, fingers moving unconsciously along the edge of the tape deck. "We both did. Didn't stop crying for about an hour. Either of us."

Sam glanced knowingly at Dean then, a look full of recrimination and anger. But Dean just gritted his teeth and looked away.

"Your dad must have been stressed, that's all," Lia said, and Dean looked up at her, puzzled.

"I never said –"

She patted his shoulder. "I know you didn't. I'll bet he'll be real sorry when he catches up with you."

Dean didn't seem convinced, and Sam looked downright terrified at the idea.

Lia quirked an eyebrow, sensing a change of subject may be in order. "So these friends of your dad's," she said. "They all hunters too?"

"Uh-huh," Sam answered without really thinking, garnering a scowl from Dean. Sam threw him a _What? I know what I'm doing!_ look, before adding, "They work together sometimes."

"Like your – uh – 'uncle' in Blue Earth?"

Sam could tell from Lia's raised eyebrows that she knew they weren't visiting any uncle. "He's our dad's best friend," he admitted. "He takes care of us sometimes when Dad has to –"

"– Work," Dean finished Sam's sentence for him, flashing another _Sammy, shut up!_ frown in his direction.

"So all your dad's friends live around here then?" Lia asked. "Near enough so's they can take care of you when your dad's working?"

Dean considered her silently, a suspicious frown on his face that seemed oddly out of place on such an angelic-looking thirteen-year-old.

Sam was frowning too, but more in concentration than anything else. "They live all over," he said. "They –"

"Sam –" Dean warned again.

Sam just stared up at him, clearly considering, before looking away and not continuing his sentence.

Lia waited for a beat before smiling brilliantly again. "Well," she said, glossing over Dean's reluctance to share any more personal information with her. "Your dad's friends are obviously lucky to know a couple of great kids like you two, huh?"

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yeah, Bobby says we're gonna be a big help to Dad when we're older."

Dean shot Sam another warning look, which the younger brother deliberately ignored.

"Bobby?" Lia echoed. "He's one of your dad's friends?"

"Uh-huh." Sam nodded.

"And what does he do?"

"He's a hunter too. Knows everything there is to know about dem…"

"Dogs," Dean interrupted quickly, firing a _Will you just quit it?_ look at Sam, before smiling brightly at Lia. "Hunting dogs," he clarified.

Lia nodded. "So where does Bobby live?" she asked casually, just as Dean spotted a rest stop in the near distance.

"Sammy needs the bathroom," he blurted, causing Lia to raise an eyebrow and Sam to scowl mercilessly.

"No I don't –"

Dean quickly silenced him. "Yes you do," he insisted through gritted teeth, before sweeping his most angelic smile back in Lia's direction. "Do you mind?" he asked innocently, trying his best to recreate Sam's puppy dog look, but coming off more like a feral stray who'd just spotted the only bone in three hundred miles.

Lia's smile seemed to slip just a little, but she shrugged all the same. "Okay," she said slowly, eyeing the grubby-looking rest stop warily. "When you gotta go you gotta go I guess."

"You – you can leave us here if you can't wait," Dean assured her. "We won't mind. Really. I'm sure we could get another ride –"

Sam was shoving him in the ribs insistently, making a less-than-subtle _Are you _nuts_?!_ face.

Lia's smile was firmly back in place. "It's no bother," she said pleasantly, pulling into the parking lot in front of a none-too-friendly looking diner which seemed almost identical to the one she'd picked them up outside of back in Ankeny. "Don't you boys worry about a thing." Killing the engine, she treated the boys to her sunniest grin. "To be honest, I could do with powdering my nose myself!"

She bounced out of the car as perkily as could be, holding the door open for Dean to follow her.

But Dean didn't follow, instead reaching across Sam and shoving the passenger door open with a determined fist before bundling his startled-looking brother out into the parking lot in front of him.

He had a firm grip on Sam's jacket at the shoulder by the time Lia realized he wasn't following her out of the driver's side.

"Oh – okay," she said, sounding slightly crestfallen. "Well I guess I'll meet you back here then?"

Dean nodded mutely, Sam shooting daggers at him as he suddenly found himself being dragged toward the grimy-looking bathroom to the rear of the diner.

Thankfully, the Ladies' Room was on the opposite side of the building, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief when he and Sam were finally out of Lia's line of sight, shoving his kid brother into the Men's Room a little harder than he'd meant.

"Dean, what's _with_ you?" Sam demanded, planting his feet and placing his hands firmly on his hips in what Dean quickly recognized as the _I'm not moving an inch until you tell me what's going on_ stance.

Re-opening the door just a crack, Dean quickly checked that Lia hadn't followed them before turning back to Sam.

"Dean, that was rude," the younger boy admonished him, frowning like that scary teacher Dean had in third grade. "Lia was being _nice_ to us, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"No," Dean said absently, running a hand through his hair. "We have to –"

"Dean!" Sam stamped his foot, a petulant pout threatening to engulf his confused face if he didn't get some answers soon. "What. The. Hell?" He ground each word out carefully, as if speaking to someone who didn't understand English.

Dean's eyes stopped darting around the room long enough to rest on his brother's face; his brother's face that was doing a pretty poor job of disguising fear beneath a mask of anger.

The older brother took a breath, placing a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder and dipping his head slightly so they were at eye level. "Something's wrong," he explained at length, casting a nervous look over his shoulder at the door.

Sam frowned. "With Lia?" he asked skeptically. "She's just a _girl_, Dean –"

"Yeah, well so was the Wicked Witch of the West," Dean insisted, shaking his head. "Why was she asking us all those questions?" he demanded. "Huh? About Mom. About Dad. About what Dad does and who his friends are and where they live?" Dean's voice was high-pitched, and, truth be told, he sounded a little manic, but now that he pointed it out, Sam could see what had tripped his big brother's paranoiameter.

"She was fishing," Sam said quietly, meeting the older boy's gaze as the sudden realization of the danger of their situation brought much-needed clarity to his sleepy eyes.

Dean nodded. "We need to get away from her."

"You think she's part of it?" Sam asked suddenly. "Whatever's going on with Dad?"

Dean bit his lip, fingers sinking deeper into the denim at Sam's shoulder. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just –" he shrugged, uncertainly. "I just got a bad feeling."

Sam knew better than to ignore one of Dean's "bad feelings" as they were rarely ever wrong. "Then we need to go," he agreed, all traces of sleepiness instantly gone from his young face.

"Our stuff's still in her car," Dean pointed out.

"Maybe we could get it while she's in the bathroom?" Sam offered hopefully.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, maybe. Girls take forever in there, right? We might have a shot." He tugged at Sam's jacket. "C'mon."

The younger boy followed obediently as his brother crept up to the bathroom door and peered cautiously back out into the parking lot.

"All clear," Dean murmured, pulling Sam back out into the frosty night air before carefully beginning to retrace their steps toward the parked Beetle.

When they reached the corner of the diner, Dean held out his arm indicating Sam should stop. Sam did as he was instructed, fighting the urge to stand on tiptoe and peer over his brother's shoulder as Dean cautiously peeked around the side of the building.

And froze completely, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"Dean?" Sam looked up at the stunned expression on his brother's face, tugging impatiently on his sleeve. "Dean? Is she there? Dean?"

Dean still didn't move, eyes blinking rapidly, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he continued to stare out onto the parking lot, rooted to the spot as every muscle in his body tensed in sheer terror.

"Dean?" Sam resorted to shaking his brother's arm. "Dean, whaddya see?"

When Dean still didn't answer, Sam decided to take matters into his own hands, standing on tiptoe as he gripped his brother's outstretched arm and peered around the older boy's shoulder.

At first, Sam couldn't figure out what had alarmed his brother so. Sure enough, there was Lia's Beetle, parked slightly askew across two parking spaces. Lia herself was standing in front of the garishly-colored vehicle, arms folded across her chest and seemingly deep in conversation with the driver of another car that had pulled up next to her, presumably after the boys had made their escape to the bathroom.

Sam couldn't quite make out the driver of the second car, backlit as he was by his own headlights, but he strode purposefully toward Lia, his vehicle's big engine thrumming a menacing accompaniment to his confident footsteps.

Sam craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the newcomer's car, something familiar about the sound of the engine tickling the back of his subconscious. It was partially concealed behind the Beetle, although it seemed twice the smaller car's length, long lines of shiny black metal contrasting sharply with Lia's beat-up old Bug.

_Wow, you could fit a dead body in that trunk…_ Sam found himself thinking, just as the driver stepped up onto the sidewalk to Lia's right, face suddenly illuminated by the altered angle of the two vehicles' combined headlights and the blinking neon sign over the diner's entrance.

Sam sucked in a sharp, cold breath, fingers tightening convulsively on Dean's arm.

"Dad?"

* * *

More soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Wow, you guys really want to know what's going on with John don't you? Well here you go! Hope it makes sense...

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"…So this is what you took from it? When you possessed it?"

"What, you didn't know they could do that? Alter human perception? Something for you to scribble in that little diary of yours, Johnny…"

"Is that what you did to my boys? Made them think –"

"I didn't _make_ them think anything. It was only a matter of time. A couple more tequilas, a couple more demons. They didn't take much convincing. You think he'd not been expecting it? Waiting for it? Waiting for you to turn on him? Hurt him? Hurt his baby brother…?"

"I'd never hurt them…"

"You've never come close? You've never raised your hand to him? Not once? Not _ever_?"

"I'd never hurt them."

"You don't sound too convinced there, Johnny."

"What do you want?"

"What do you think I want?"

"Dean, can you hear what they're saying?" Sam wasn't sure how he regained his voice. He was still hanging on to his big brother like a life preserver, breath short and choppy, fogging his vision. "Dean?"

Dean still hadn't moved, paralyzed, eyes huge and unblinking.

"Dean?" Sam resorted to shaking him again. "Dean? Dean can you hear me?"

Dean looked down then, blinked once, swallowed hard. Stared at his little brother out of a face the color of untrodden snow. He nodded. "I hear you, Sammy," he muttered, before finally managing, "They're talking, but I can't hear what they're saying."

Sam nodded, relieved his brother seemed to have come back to his senses. "So you were right?" he asked. "About Lia? She knows Dad?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "They're talking…" he repeated, his attention returning to the odd scene outside the diner.

"They won't believe you…" the low hum of Dad's voice. "They won't believe I'd…"

"Why d'you think they ran away, Johnny? Why d'you think they let a total stranger put them in her car and drive away from you?"

"They wouldn't. Dean wouldn't. He'd never risk his brother. He'd never…"

Lia inched slowly toward the Beetle, reaching into the back seat and pulling out Dean's duffel. "Look familiar?"

Silence, save for the throaty rumble of the Impala's engine.

"If you hurt them…"

"I'm not going to hurt them, Johnny. _You're_ going to hurt them. They think you want to kill them. They think you're _possessed_."

"That's ridiculous…"

"They think you're _insane_…"

"Dad –?" Dean whispered, and Lia turned, lightning fast, eyes boring through the cold night air straight at them.

"No, mister, no!" she screamed suddenly, almost theatrically. "Please don't –"

And then something changed.

Like a wave of – something – beginning at the Impala and fanning out across the parking lot toward them. Light and sound and _difference_ and –

Dad's hand, holding a revolver.

Dad's voice, hard as steel. "You can't protect them."

Dad's finger, pulling back on the trigger.

Three shots.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

And Lia sprawled across the pavement, a hole in her head and two more in her chest, eyes open.

Looking.

Looking at them.

"No!" The word tore from Dean's throat before he even realized he'd said anything, Dad's focus altering from the girl bleeding on the pavement to the boys trembling around the corner.

And he was walking toward them, slowly, deliberately, gun in hand. "Boys? I don't want to hurt you. Don't run. Stay right where you are. That's an order. Dean? That's an order. You hear me son? Son? You hear me? That's an order."

Talking. Talking all the while.

Dean's head was buzzing.

"That's an order, Dean."

Another step toward them.

Another step toward Sam.

"Stay right there, Dean. Stay right there, son."

"Dean? Dean, we need to go."

Sammy's voice.

He looked down, big frightened eyes locking with his own.

"We need to go."

Pulling on his arm.

"Right now."

"Dean, don't you move."

"_Now_, Dean!"

"Sammy, it's okay. It's Daddy…"

Three shots.

And Lia dead on the pavement.

Dean grabbed Sam's hand and ran.

* * *

"Is he coming?" Sam whispered, mouth pressed right up against Dean's ear. "Can you see him?"

Dean tried to breathe normally, closing his eyes every couple of seconds to fend off the blackness hovering around the edges of his vision. _Dad was coming. Dad had a gun. Dad had killed Lia. Dad was coming to kill _them_…_

"Dean, can you see him?" Sam's voice was urgent, his fingers clinging to Dean's arm like a vise.

"Sammy, just be quiet!" Dean hissed, pulling Sam in closer in an attempt to still the younger boy as the two of them cowered beneath an eighteen-wheeler parked to the rear of the diner.

They'd taken refuge here about five minutes earlier, Dad chasing them across the dingy lot until they managed to shake him off by dodging between the trucks parked here for the night.

"But Dean…!"

Footsteps, and Dean had his hand over Sam's mouth, both boys tensing as a pair of scuffed black boots rounded the truck parked in the next space over.

"Dean? Sammy?"

Sam let out a muffled squeak, and Dean tightened his hold on him, praying their dad wouldn't hear.

Boots crunched on gravel, advancing on their position until they were _right there._ And then stopped, suddenly, only a foot away.

Sam's eyes widened, and Dean swore he could hear their hearts hammering in tandem.

"Dean? I'm not mad, son. Just come out. We can talk."

Standing _right there._ So close he could reach out and touch him.

"Sammy? Where are you son?"

Six and a half seconds he stood there.

Sam knew because he counted.

And it was only when the boots turned and started to clomp away that Dean realized his fingers were numb. He released his hold on his brother slowly, not entirely convinced Sammy wouldn't scream the house down as soon as he was able.

But he didn't. Just turned dark, frightened eyes on his brother and moved even closer, trembling.

Dean held his breath, waited for the footsteps to return.

Counted to a hundred.

Counted again.

Started to crawl out.

"Dean, no!"

Pulling. Trying to pull him back.

But Dean needed to see. Needed to see where Dad was.

Sammy, of course, had to follow.

"Is he here?"

Dean helped Sam to his feet, shaking his head as his eyes darted up and down the space between the two trucks, a tiny space in reality, although it felt about the size of a football field to Dean right now.

He'd never felt so exposed, so unprotected.

Unprotected.

Dad would never hurt them.

Dad would _never_ hurt them.

So why were they running?

Lia dead on the pavement. Bullet hole in her head, two in her chest.

"Maybe we can get to Lia's car?" Sam suggested. "You could drive it, right?"

Dean shrugged. He'd been driving the Impala since he was twelve, so he figured he could probably handle a Bug. "Maybe." He cocked his head to one side as he listened for Dad's heavy footfalls, but heard nothing but the distant thrum of the still-idling Impala. He glanced down at Sam, reaching out and taking his hand firmly in his own. "C'mon."

Dean started to run toward the rear of the parked trucks, dragging his kid brother behind him. "We have to get out of here, Sammy," he said, slowing his pace some so that the smaller boy could keep up. "We have to figure out what's wrong with Dad. Why he would –"

"Whoa there!"

A strong arm had appeared out of nowhere, wrapping itself around Dean's shoulders, pulling him back against a solid torso and pinning his arms so he couldn't move. He struggled to free himself, struggled to pull Sam closer to him.

"Get off!" he spat, not entirely sure who he was addressing.

"Hold your horses there, sonny!"

Dean looked up and back, up into the ruddy face of an elderly trucker with long white hair scraped back into a ponytail and a goatee that reminded him of Pastor Jim's.

"Let go!" Dean reiterated his position none-too-gently, aiming a kick at the trucker's shin.

The older man took a step back just in time to avoid the boy's sneaker, grip never faltering as his other hand found purchase on the smaller kid's jacket.

"Don't touch him!" Dean yelled, trying to stamp on the trucker's foot this time.

"It's alright, son," the old man's voice was like honey, soothing and warm. "It's alright. You're safe now. Don't be scared."

Dean didn't relax for one second, still struggling to free himself as the trucker suddenly had an armful of Sam at Dean's side, both boys pulled together in front of him, a strong arm around each boy's shoulders.

Sam was clawing at the limb restraining him, and the trucker's grip on Dean slipped slightly as he tried to adjust his hold on the younger boy. Seizing the opportunity, Dean managed to free his elbow enough to bring it back into his assailant's stomach, sinking his teeth into the age-spotted hand which, in Dean's opinion, had strayed far too close to his mouth for him not to take advantage of its proximity.

The trucker muffled a yell, tightening his grip on Dean as he finally got a firm hold on Sam. "That's no way to treat someone trying to offer you a helping hand, boy," the trucker admonished him, for a second tugging Dean right off his feet as he attempted to quell the boy's struggling.

"We don't need your help –" Dean snarled, again trying to kick out, but the trucker just laughed heartily.

"That why you were hiding under my truck?"

Dean stilled somewhat at that. "This is your truck?"

"Coulda made road pizza outta the pair of you," the trucker continued. "Good job I think to check whether I've got any strays hiding under my wheels before I drive off."

"We're not 'strays'!" Sam protested, struggling to keep his feet on the ground.

"But you were sure as hell hiding from something," the trucker asserted. "Or someone."

Dean had stopped struggling altogether now, the breath knocked right out of him as the image of Dad firing three bullets into Lia burst unbidden behind his eyes.

The old trucker's voice softened further. "You boys need a ride somewhere?"

Dean twisted slightly, looking up into pale blue eyes. "Why should we trust you?"

The trucker chuckled. "Didn't run you over, did I? Come on, my cab's just warming up –"

"Get your hands off of them."

Dean looked up at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice, stomach flipping right over as his fearful eyes met those of his father.

He was standing right opposite them, about ten feet away near the rear of the truck, dark brows drawn together into a purposeful scowl as his steady fingers tightened around the revolver still gripped firmly in his hand.

The trucker didn't move, but Dean thought he felt the old guy's muscles tense, a second stretching out in time as the two adults glared at each other menacingly.

"Hands. Off." Dad repeated with a slight movement of the weapon in his hand.

Again the trucker didn't move, a deep laugh finally beginning to rumble from the depths of his belly. "You think that can hurt me?" he asked, motioning his head in the direction of John's revolver, while his voice altered in some way Dean couldn't quite identify. "Johnny, you disappoint me."

Dean twisted at the trucker's sudden use of his father's name, looking back up into the old timer's big blue eyes… Which were suddenly as pitch black as the night sky above them.

Demon.

Crap.

He should have known.

"I know bullets can't hurt you," Dad was saying. "But they can hurt that poor old guy you're hiding inside of. And without a host, you're just a puff of smoke right?"

The demon laughed, long and hard, shaking the two boys as the old trucker's body shook with each mirthless chuckle. "You think you can drop him before I rip your little boys' throats out?" he asked. "Take your best shot."

The fingers of the hand gripping Dean's shoulder slid upwards until they were encircling the boy's throat, squeezing slightly until an involuntary whimper escaped his lips.

"Dean –!" Sam cried urgently, trying unsuccessfully to twist out of the trucker's grip. "Stop it!" he added, as the trucker just continued to grin.

John's blank expression twitched just slightly. "That's what this is?" he asked slowly, inclining his head in his sons' direction. "That's why you made them think I wanted to hurt them? You wanted to make them so scared of me they'd run away? So they'd be alone. Unprotected. So you – so you could hurt them? So you could hurt them to hurt_ me_?"

The trucker's voice seemed to drop several degrees until it was positively glacial. "Don't you know _anything_ about revenge, John?" he asked. "You think I'm that transparent?" He shook Dean slightly. "This one? Trusts you so completely it hurts you to look at him, doesn't it? Every time you let him down; every time you betray that unending, unshakeable trust. Take a look in his eyes, Johnny. You think he trusts you right now? You think he's not scared of you?"

John swallowed visibly, jaw setting as he deliberately refused to look at his older son.

"This one though?" the demon continued, shaking Sam this time. "He's already starting to doubt you, isn't he? Asks too many questions. Wants to know _why_. You don't like that, do you? The _why._ Don't have the answers, do you?" He laughed again, cold, insidious. "This one's going to be trouble, Johnny, you mark my words. _Real_ trouble. You don't have the slightest idea how much."

"What do you want?" John demanded.

"_This_, John," the demon said, inclining his head down at the boys. "Sure, I wanted to get them away from you," he chuckled again. "Wanted to see real fear in their eyes. Fear of you. Wanted to make them hate you just a little bit." He shook them both this time, and Dean looked up at him with a scowl. "Don't you hate him, boy? For hitting you…?"

"I never hit you, Dean," John put in, a trace of desperation skating the thin edge of his voice. "Never. He can make you see things… Make you think things are happening when…"

"Dad…" Dean was pleading, wanting so badly to believe, eyes skittering over to his father's unmoving form.

"You shot Lia," Sam piped up suddenly.

John looked taken aback, eyes shooting to his younger son. "Lia?" He frowned, before realization hit him. "The girl in the Bug? No. Sammy, no. I never shot anyone. She's fine. She's –"

John trailed off as the deep rumble of the demon's chuckle filled the air between them. "That's it, Johnny. Go on. Try and regain their trust. See how much faith they have in you now."

John grit his teeth. "You sonofa –"

The demon shook his head. "Fear in their eyes, John. Look. You can almost taste it." He lowered his head slightly, and Dean could smell stale alcohol on the old trucker's breath. "But that's not all I wanted. That's not the best part. It's not about them. Not really. It's about you, John. You should see the fear in _your _eyes. That's real fear. Primal fear. _That's_ what this is about, John. You. _Your_ fear."

"Get away from them." John's voice was low, artfully controlled. But Dean could hear the tremor there.

"Revenge, John," the demon continued. "You think I want to hurt them –"

"Get away from them," John repeated, taking a step forward.

The demon shook his head, pulling the boys in a little tighter. "Blood for blood. You understand that, don't you John? Don't you?"

"What happened to your son wasn't my fault –"

"Blood for blood. You think I'm going to murder your sons the way you murdered mine."

Dean froze, eyes shooting from Dad to the demon and back again.

John raised his chin defiantly. "I didn't murder your son –"

"No, but you may as well have," the demon spat, the trucker's fingernails digging into Dean's neck as his grip tightened.

"What you did was wrong," John said, the conviction almost palpable in his voice. "You honestly thought possessing a Reaper would keep Death from taking your son?"

"It _did_ keep Death from taking him," the demon asserted, voice faltering slightly. "He _lived_ –"

"For a few extra days," John pointed out. "But only while you possessed the Reaper. How long did you think that could last?" He shook his head before continuing shortly, "It was his time. That was all. No one murdered your son. He had leukemia. It was just his time…"

"He was a child," the demon spat. "Younger than these little brats." He shook the boys again, and Dean saw stars explode behind his eyes as the fingers around his throat tightened, beginning to cut off his air supply. "What gives _them_ the right to more life than he had?"

"They're human," John said quietly.

The demon laughed coldly. "You think that's why my son was singled out for death?" he asked. "Because he was half demon?"

John shook his head. "Honestly? I don't know. I'm not going to debate the rightness of it; you chose to have a child with a human, that was your decision. But it was his time, that's why the Reaper came for him –"

"And that's why I took the Reaper instead! If you hadn't come along with your oh-so-clever little exorcism –"

"You were abusing the Reaper's power," John insisted. "Taking people before their time. Taking _innocents, _anyone you saw fit to take –"

"How do you _know_ they were 'innocent,' John?" the demon demanded, the old trucker's entire frame beginning to shake from head to toe. "How do you know that?"

"It wasn't their time," John asserted. "You had no right to take them."

"And that Reaper had no right to take my son," the demon yelled.

John took a breath, trying not to look at the blood beginning to stain Dean's neck where the trucker's fingernails were digging into the boy's tender flesh. "You had to be stopped," he said quietly. "You were out of control with powers that didn't belong to you, powers you had no right to be using –"

Again that mirthless laugh. "And you were the one to do it, weren't you? High and mighty defender of the cosmic balance. If you hadn't exorcized me – if you hadn't sent me back to Hell – the Reaper wouldn't have been able to take my son – wouldn't have been able to end his short, miserable life –"

"Another Reaper would have come. Don't you see that? Even if I hadn't exorcized you – even if I hadn't sent you to Hell. It was your son's time. That's all."

The demon nodded slowly. "His time," he repeated. "Of course." He shifted his feet slightly, looking up at John through the trucker's dark eyelashes. "So you're telling me you wouldn't have done the same? You're telling me if you had been in my place you wouldn't have done anything, tried _anything_ to save your son's life? You're telling me you wouldn't do the same for your boys? You're telling me you wouldn't do _anything_ to protect _them_?"

"I'd die for them," John answered instantly, looking right into the demon's midnight-black eyes.

"I believe you," the demon replied sincerely. "But if it was _their_ time? If it was just their time to die? You're telling me you wouldn't do _anything_ to save them? Cross any line, make any deal? Make a deal with a demon, maybe? If it meant saving your sons' lives?"

John didn't answer immediately, eyes lingering thoughtfully over the two boys in front of him. "I'd do anything for them," he said at length, continuing to hold the demon's challenging gaze. "Anything." He took a breath. "But not that," he shook his head. "Never that. Not even if it meant their lives. When our time's up, our time's just up and that's all there is to it. What you did – what you tried to do. It wasn't natural. And look what's come of it –"

"Yes," the demon agreed. "Look what's come of it. Like you didn't think I'd crawl back out of Hell some day, John Winchester. Like you didn't think I'd come looking for you."

"I guess you found me."

"Found your boys too. This one –" Sam's turn to be shaken. "Just a babe in arms last time we met. Took me that long to find a way out. But you knew I'd be back. You knew I'd come looking, didn't you?"

John continued to gaze at him coolly. "Guessed as much."

"And yet you let me near your children," the demon taunted. "Let this 'puff of smoke' deceive them, lie to them. Make them think terrible, terrible things about you, John. About their own father. Let me make them fear you. Let me make them hate you. Let me take them from you. Unprepared and unaware."

"Oh, they're not unaware," John said with a mirthless laugh of his own. "And they're certainly not unprepared."

"You think being prepared to kill a werewolf or exorcize a poltergeist is the same thing as being prepared to die?" the demon asked. "I know how you've trained these little soldier boys of yours, John. And I know you're ready to die for them. But are _they_ ready to die for _you_? For your crusade?"

"Don't touch them –"

"You see, I lied when I said this wasn't just about blood. It's _always_ about blood, Johnny."

John straightened. "So what do you want?" he repeated, hardly daring to ask the question.

Dean tried to look up at the old trucker, tried to gauge what was in his eyes. But there was nothing there. Nothing. Not the slightest trace of emotion. The absence of everything in those empty black orbs.

"Blood for blood. Your blood for mine."

"Then take me –"

"You think I'd make it that easy on you? You took my son from me, Winchester. My blood. Time for me to repay the favor."

"They're just children –"

"And so was he. You think I care that it was his time? You think _time_ means anything to one who is _timeless_? Maybe it's _their_ time, John." He shook the boys again. "Maybe it's just their time. How do _you_ know?"

"Please –"

"You're going to plead with me? You're going to beg for mercy for your worthless spawn? You want to make a _deal_, Johnny? You want to make a deal with me? Your life for theirs…?"

"Anything…"

"Even if it's their time?"

"Anything."

"So choose."

John said nothing, the world seeming to have stopped around him.

"Choose, Winchester. A life for a life. Which one will you save?"

At first, Dean didn't understand the demon's words, couldn't fathom why the color suddenly drained from his father's face.

"Choose, Winchester."

Choose…

"Dad?"

"Dean –"

"Because one of your little boys is going to die tonight, Johnny. And it's entirely up to you which one that is."

Dean saw Sam's eyes dart sideways at that, face pale against his wild, dark hair and the trucker's grubby denim coat.

"Dean? Dean, what's he talking about?"

"Choose, Winchester."

John looked away, looked at his feet, looked to the heavens, looked anywhere but at his two sons. "No. I can't. You can't make me… You can't make me do that…"

"Blood for blood. I understand revenge. And I understand mercy. So I'll let one live. If you choose."

"I can't –"

"You want me to do it for you? Would that make it easier?"

"Dad –"

"Absolve you of the guilt? Not your fault. You didn't tell me which to take. Not your fault. _Never_ your fault, John."

"Let them go."

"Which one, Winchester?"

Dad was looking at them now, teeth grit hard, lips compressed into a thin white line.

"Don't do it, Dad!" Dean burst out suddenly. "Don't let him –", but the rest of the sentence was choked off as the demon squeezed his throat mercilessly, causing the world to tip precariously and the color to drain right out of everything.

"Dean!" Sam's voice echoed in his head. "Don't! Please – Dad, do something!"

"Choose, Winchester."

"I can't."

"_Choose_."

"Dad –" Dean got the word out somehow. "Don't let it take Sammy, Dad! Don't! If you've got to choose –"

John was shaking his head. "Dean, I can't – I can't lose either of you –"

"Come on, Johnny. You can play favorites. We won't mind, will we boys?"

The demon released some of the pressure on Dean's windpipe, and he turned a vicious scowl up at his captor. "If you hurt my brother, I swear –"

"How about this one, John?" the demon said, pulling Dean against him as if he was hugging his favorite nephew. "Your firstborn. Little toy solider, trying so hard to pretend he's made in Daddy's image." He shook his head in mock sympathy. "Too bad he's so much like Mommy, though."

Despite his recent lack of oxygen, Dean managed to land a kick to the trucker's shin, and the demon beamed happily. "Got a lot of fight in him for a kid so goddamn _obedient_, huh, Johnny? Don't you just wish sometimes – _one_ time – he'd disagree with you? Question you? Say 'no' just once? Like little Sammy here. Your baby. What about him, John? You wanna save the baby? You wanna save the baby again?"

It was Sam's turn to scowl up at the demon. "I'm _not_ a baby!" he protested, making another ineffectual attempt at twisting out of the trucker's grip.

The demon smiled indulgently with the trucker's amiable face. "I know that, son," he said. "But that's how Daddy and your big brother here will always see you. Little baby Sammy… Gotta protect the baby. You think you'll ever get out of their shadow? You think they'll ever let you go?"

"I don't want to go anywhere," Sam said. "Not without them –"

"Aw, outta the mouths of babes," the demon said. "Dean was right, you _are_ the adorable one…"

Dean's eyes widened. "Lia. You were in Lia?"

"Lovely girl," the demon honeyed. "A little short for my tastes. Short but sweet… Tasted like raspberries…"

"Dad –?"

"I swear, she's fine, Dean –"

"Such concern for others. It'd be such a shame to sacrifice this one, Johnny. And something of a cliché. Always the firstborn that were taken by the plagues of old…"

"I'm not choosing –"

"Then _I will_."

The demon straightened the trucker's body, jet black eyes glinting coldly in the starlight as they cut through the icy air and locked with the man standing opposite.

"Choose or I take them _both_ –"

"That wasn't the deal –"

"So you admit this is a deal we have? You're making a deal with a demon?"

"That's not –"

"_This_ one first then, Johnny. Take the baby."

"NO!" Dean screamed the word so loud it hurt his ears as the trucker's fingers jerked up around Sam's neck, beginning to choke the life out of the little boy as his brother stood watching. "Sammy! No – Dad –!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Dad take an anguished step forward. "Wait – wait!" he cried, holding out the revolver as if it was a white flag. "Wait!"

The demon stopped, grip on Sam's neck loosening just a fraction, enough for Sam to cough out a ragged, "Dean –?"

The demon narrowed his eyes. "You've chosen?"

John took a breath, averted his eyes again. "Dean," he said in a small voice.

Dean froze, heart hammering loud enough to wake the dead. "Dad?"

"To save or to sacrifice?" the demon asked, voice dripping with inhuman glee.

John looked up then, met his boy's wide hazel eyes.

"Save or sacrifice, John?"

John opened his mouth slowly, deliberately, all emotion gone from his dark features as he prepared to answer.

Which was when the gale started.

As if from nowhere, a distant howl became a sudden, ear-splitting tornado, wind whipping at the boys' clothes and hair as the gale spiraled about them, round and round until they couldn't see, the demon clutching them possessively to his chest as a cry of similar intensity was ripped from his throat, head thrown back, eyes staring black into the storm.

"Boys, get down!" they heard their dad yell, hoping against hope to be heard above the turmoil, Dean blinking grit out of his eyes as he struggled to locate his kid brother's cowering silhouette in the swirling cloud of black that now surrounded them.

Reaching out, he caught Sam's arm as the demon screamed anew, one last, anguished howl as black vapor poured out of the trucker's open mouth, screaming the demon from his body as the creature was sucked up into the battering winds, carried up, up, up, black against the blackest sky.

Dean dropped into a crouch as the trucker's grip slackened, pulling Sam down with him and holding him to his chest as he tried to cover the younger boy's face in his arms, the wind still screeching all around them as the demon screamed in frustrated agony.

Squeezing their eyes tightly shut, the boys waited for it to be over, Sam trembling as he clung on to his brother with every bit of strength he had, and Dean just hoping they wouldn't get sucked up into the demonic tornado, like the houses in _The Wizard of Oz_.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over, silence and the distant growl of the Impala the only thing that either boy could hear; that, and the heavy breathing and hammering heart of the other boy as they held on to each other for dear life.

"Whew, that was a close one!" an unmistakably familiar voice cut through the sudden, unnatural quiet. "I really gotta work on my timing…"

* * *

Thanks for all the lovely reviews you guys have been leaving for me!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **So here's the last chapter! It's a little shorter than the others - more of an epilogue I guess! Thanks so much to everyone who's read and everyone who's reviewed! It's always nice to hear from you!

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"Bobby?"

Sam and Dean chorused the name in unison, the boys finally daring to peer up out of their makeshift huddle as the grizzled hunter sauntered casually into view from behind the parked trucks, gait slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

Adjusting his ball cap as he wedged a large, battered book that probably weighed more than Sam did under one arm, he clutched a plain earthenware jar to his chest as if it was made of the finest china, thick fingers juggling with what looked like a cork stopper with a metal seal set in the top, which he jammed into the rim of the jar with an audible hiss and a relieved sigh.

"You get it?" Dad asked, turning briefly toward his friend, shoulders tense, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Bobby nodded an affirmative. "Snug as a bug in a rug," he confirmed. "Or a genie in a bottle." He grinned, holding the jar up so that he could inspect his own handiwork.

Dad relaxed visibly, returning Bobby's grin.

"Dad?" Dean stood shakily, pulling Sam up with him and reaffirming his grip on the younger boy's hand – a reflex he had tried to overcome as Sam got older, but seemed an automatic necessity at this precise moment in time.

For once, Sam didn't shrug him off, squeezing back as he inched slightly behind the older boy, gripping his arm with his free hand.

His attention instantly on his sons at the sound of Dean's voice, Dad jogged across the black asphalt toward them, surprising both boys by kneeling in front of them and pulling them into an uncharacteristic hug.

Dean stiffened for a brief instant, before gradually relaxing into his father's embrace, a tentative hand curling around the man's broad shoulder. "You're _you_ now, right?" he asked quietly. "Not that – that – whatever that was?"

Dad held the boys tighter, an arm locked around each of them, face buried in the space between their shoulders. "I was always me," he said carefully, gradually pulling his face away, but not relinquishing his grip on either of them. "It – it just made you think I was different." He knew it was a lame explanation, could see the questions in both boys' eyes, just wasn't sure how to answer them.

"I don't –" Dean began, but Sam silenced him.

"Did you hit Dean?" the younger brother asked, bottom lip protruding slightly.

John frowned before shaking his head. "No," he replied, and Sam could see from the pain that flashed in his father's eyes that he was telling the truth. "He really did fall in gym class. I called your teacher at home before I left tonight, just to check."

"Then why did I think – why did _we_ think we saw –" Dean stumbled, lacking the words to frame the question he really wanted to ask.

"It could alter perception," Dad replied, squinting slightly at his older son. "You know what I mean by that?"

Dean nodded slightly. "Made us see things that weren't really there?"

Dad returned the nod. "Or things that weren't really happening. Made you dream things you shouldn't have been dreaming… Made you think – made you think I wanted to hurt you… Hurt Sammy…" he trailed off, as if unable to complete the sentence.

"We thought you were possessed," Sam said, trying to smile reassuringly, like Dean always did whenever Sam was scared or upset. "We knew you wouldn't hurt us really."

Strangely enough, the reassurance seemed to have the desired effect, and despite the tears welling in his dark eyes, Dad smiled a little. "I'm glad," he said. "I'm glad you didn't think I'd –" He stopped, reading the odd look on his older son's face.

"It was a demon?" Dad got the feeling that wasn't the question Dean really wanted to ask.

"Yes," he replied, regardless.

"You killed its son?" Sam asked.

Dad shook his head vehemently. "No," he said. "His son was sick, dying. A Reaper came to take him – you know what a Reaper does, right?" When both boys nodded, Dad continued, "The demon thought if it possessed the Reaper, Death wouldn't find his son."

"Demons can do that?" Sam sounded awestruck. "Possess Reapers?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah. Or that one could, at any rate. Only it didn't stop at possessing the Reaper. Started using the Reaper's powers to its own ends. Started reaping any soul it saw fit to reap – not just the ones whose time was up. Took a couple of – of my friends. People like me. Upset the balance of things. Drew attention to itself."

"So you stopped it?" Dean asked, a little of the usual hero worship seeping back into his big hazel eyes.

Dad nodded. "Exorcized it," he confirmed. "Sent it back to Hell where it belonged."

"And the Reaper took the demon's son?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Dad confirmed. "As it was supposed to. It was the boy's time. It was natural. It had to happen that way."

"But the demon came back?" Dean asked. "Climbed back out of Hell and came looking for you?"

Dad averted his gaze slightly, studying the black asphalt intently. "Yes," he said with the barest inclination of his head. "Took me a while to figure out what was going on, which demon it was." He grinned then. "I've sent a lot of those evil sons of bitches to Hell in my time. But as soon as it made a move on you guys, I knew. I knew which it was."

"It wanted to hurt you by hurting us," Sam said.

Dad just looked at him. "Something like that," he said.

"If a Reaper came for us," Sam continued earnestly, "would you try to stop it like that demon did?"

Dad didn't answer immediately. "Honestly?" he said, trying to hold his younger son's inquisitive gaze. "I don't know."

"That's not what you said to the demon," Dean pointed out, that odd look in his eyes again.

Dad's attention shifted to the older boy. "No," he said. "That's not what I said to the demon."

"You lied to it."

"No," Dad repeated, shaking his head before looking away again, unable to meet his son's accusative gaze. He shrugged, as uncertain as Dean had ever seen him. "I don't know," he admitted, before looking back up into his son's eyes. "God forbid I should ever be faced with that situation. I honestly don't know what I'd do." He paused, pulling his boys closer and lowering his voice. "You boys know I'd do anything for you, don't you?"

Sam nodded instantly, tightening the grip he had around Dad's neck.

Dean just continued to stare at him, and Dad could see the pain in his eldest son's eyes.

Betrayal.

And suddenly he knew the question Dean really wanted to ask.

"Dean –"

"When it asked you to choose," the older boy cut him off suddenly, as if he knew what his father was going to say next. He chewed on his lip uncertainly before adding, "When you said –"

"Dean –"

"Did you mean it?" Dean was looking right into his father's eyes.

"Did I mean what?" John asked, returning his boy's gaze as levelly as he was able.

Dean took a breath. "That you – that you wanted it to – that you wanted…" Dean trailed off, looking down at his sneakers and trying to fight back the moisture suddenly burning behind his eyelids. "I mean – I'd want you to save Sammy," he added quickly, still not looking up. "If you had to choose."

"Dean?" Dad reached out a finger and caught hold of his older son's chin, lifting his eyes back up toward his father's. "Dean, I was playing for time. I was waiting for Bobby to finish the ritual. The thing was about to kill your brother. I was stalling, I never said… I never meant…" He couldn't finish the sentence, instead choosing to pull the older boy tighter against his chest. "I'd never let anything hurt you, Dean," he whispered in the boy's ear. "You know that."

Dean nodded against his dad's shoulder. "Or Sammy."

It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact, and Dad nodded. "Or Sammy."

"So what happened to the demon?" Sam asked suddenly, pulling away slightly as his curiosity, as always, got the better of him.

Bobby had strolled up to them by this point, and he held the jar out toward the younger boy, giving it a tiny shake as he grinned lopsidedly. "You ever hear of Aladdin, kid?" he asked.

Sam looked up at him with a frown. "Sure," he replied, a little uncertainly.

"You think that whole 'genie in a bottle' thing's just a story?"

Sam shrugged, frown deepening.

"'Genie' is kind of an old word for 'demon,' son," Bobby continued. "Sometimes, demons – or particular types of demon – can be trapped in something like this –" he shook the jar again, "– indefinitely. Bound to it. If you know the right words, the right rituals."

"That's what's in the book?" Dean asked, eyes drawn to the huge tome beneath Bobby's arm.

"Among other things," Bobby replied with a wry smile. "Saved my ass more times than I can remember, this thing has."

"And it can't get out?" Sam asked. "Like it could get out of Hell?"

Bobby exchanged a glance with John then. "No. Not as far as we know."

"So it can't come after us again?" Dean asked uncertainly, glancing from Bobby to his dad.

Dad brushed a gentle hand through his son's short hair. "No," he assured him. "It won't come after us again."

The boys gazed at the jar clutched to Bobby's chest in awed silence for a few seconds, before Sam suddenly piped up, "Lia! She's okay, right? You didn't shoot her? Dad? We saw you shoot her…"

Dad ruffled Sam's curls with a smile. "Lia's fine. She's just a bit – confused."

"The demon possessed her, right?" Dean asked.

Dad nodded, and Bobby added, "Poor kid can't remember a thing after she pulled into that truck stop in Ankeny."

Dean's eyes widened. "You were following us?"

"No," Dad said, seeing the brief flash of indignant anger in his boy's eyes. "No, we were following the demon."

"You can do that?" Sam asked, brow scrunching.

"Sometimes," Bobby replied. "Depends on the demon."

Dean shifted from one foot to the other. "Why didn't you come get us?" he asked. "Why didn't you come get us when that guy in the blue van –"

Dad frowned. "What guy?"

"When Lia picked us up," Sam explained. "There was this guy. Tried to pull us into his van."

Bobby shook his head. "There was no guy," he said. "Just Lia in that god-awful pink contraption of hers."

Dean glanced at Sam, whose brow scrunched up still further. "But we saw –"

"The demon made us see that," Dean interrupted, suddenly understanding. "To make us trust Lia."

Sam nodded slowly, light dawning in his wide eyes as he caught on. "So we'd go with her," he said. "Wow, that's kinda clever when you think about it."

"Kinda sneaky," Dean amended. He looked up at Dad then. "But she's gonna be okay?"

"Oh yeah," Bobby answered for his friend. "I left her sitting in her car with a bottle of water and a couple of Advil. She's gonna have a killer headache, but apart from that, she'll be fine. Pretty much like that guy."

A sudden groan behind them reminded the boys of the presence of the old trucker, who right now was sitting propped up against one of the wheels of his eighteen-wheeler, clutching his head and screwing his eyes tightly shut. "Wow, that was some tequila," he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to work up the strength to open his eyes, but thinking better of it, and merely slumping back into unconsciousness before Bobby or Dad could ask after his welfare.

"Demonic possession can certainly take it out of a guy," Bobby muttered, chuckling softly.

Dean glanced nervously back at the jar still clutched in the hunter's hand. "You're sure that thing can't get back out?" he asked. "'Cause when it was in Lia, it was asking us all sorts of questions – about Dad, and his friends, and where you all live and what you do and –"

Dad gently traced the rough pad of his thumb over the bruise purpling his son's cheek, drawing the older boy's attention back to his father. "It can't get back out," he said, looking Dean straight in the eye, no soft soap, no empty reassurances. "We're as sure as we can be."

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. "Okay then," he said steadily, leaning a little further into Dad's shoulder.

Sam chose that moment to yawn none-too-subtly, and Dad's smile widened. "I think it's time we got you guys home to bed," he said. "You've got school in the morning."

Both boys' eyes widened in affronted surprise.

"Daaaad…!" Sam whined. "We just helped you fight off a demon!"

"Yeah, cut us some slack, Dad," Dean added, voice regaining a little of its usual confidence. "After all, you _did _kinda use us as demon bait. I'd say you owe us a day off school at least."

"And I'd say you owe me twenty bucks," Dad informed his older son, grinning lopsidedly as he slowly got to his feet, a hand on each boy's shoulder as he steered them back in the direction of the waiting Impala. "And a Hershey bar."

"Jeez," Dean sighed, curling his fingers around his dad's as they rested lightly on his shoulder. "Good job I didn't take the beer, too…"

**The End**

* * *

Again, thanks to everyone who's given me such lovely feedback! I loved all your guesses about what was going on with John, who Lia was and who had come to the rescue at the end! I actually wrote this before WIAWSNB so I hope the 'Genie' reference works out okay! Thanks again!


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